


Mistrust

by heckofabecca



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, and I love it, she has no chill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-04 21:58:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12177321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heckofabecca/pseuds/heckofabecca
Summary: Stuck under her uncle Denethor's care in Minas Tirith two years before the Enemy's final defeat, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth spies on a marshal from Rohan on her father's behalf.But nothing ever goes quite according to plan when you're eighteen and foolhardy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hannah_jpg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannah_jpg/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Crawling Towards the Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/325644) by hannah.jpg. 
  * Inspired by [Tell Me How](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/325653) by hannah.jpg. 



> Happy Eothiriel week!
> 
> The plan is to post one chapter a day, since this is conveniently 6 chapters + epilogue/blooper reel. Written as a gift for my friend Hannah—happy very belated birthday :)
> 
> Hope you all enjoy!

_T.A. 3017  
_ _July 17_

A Northman was begging in the throne room.

Well, perhaps _begging_ was the wrong word. Pleading? Asking for help? Lothíriel wasn’t sure how she’d describe the scene between the lord from Rohan and her uncle Denethor, but _cordial_ and _successful_ were the opposite of how things seemed to be going for the Northman now. She couldn’t make out more than one word in ten, but from his tone, the foreigner’s disappointment—disgust?—was clear.

Her uncle’s voice, clipped and cool, rose over the Northman’s, and with a heaving sigh Lothíriel pushed herself away from the door. She ran nimbly up the steps of the White Tower to the second level, where a balcony ran along the long sides of the throne room, and tucked the loose strands of her dark hair that she’d been fiddling with back into its beaded net. Denethor had chosen to meet in private with the Northman, so Lothíriel’s only chance of getting a glimpse of the man was to slip in while Denethor was distracted by him. Denethor always kept his focus on the men he was meeting with, which left a nice bit of wiggle room for Lothíriel to sneak about. She was far less intriguing than a stranger, at least in her own opinion.

But by the time she had creaked open the door to the balcony, the Northman was already practically out of the hall. From her vantage point, Lothíriel could see Denethor’s hand rubbing circles on his temple.

_Rhaich!_ Lothíriel thought angrily. Her father had hoped for an account of this man’s visit, and she’d been too slow. She bit her tongue and with an eye on her uncle began to return to the tower.

But the Northman unexpectedly turned back as the guards were about to close the door. Denethor sat up straight, and Lothíriel’s lips parted with surprise. Even from the far end of the hall, the man’s height and youth were as apparent as his distaste. He strode quickly back towards her uncle, and his black look made Lothíriel crouch at once behind the stone balustrade. She peeked through the thick bars.

“You have another question, marshal?” Denethor asked in Westron. His voice was cold.

“No,” the Northman said. His accent was sonorous despite his churning frustration. “I understand you well. But I will ask once more, to assure those who will say I did not try. You will not join with Rohan, and help us fight against the enemy?”

“I will not do what will put my people at greater risk. You ask much and can give little in return, if your hardships are as great as you claim.”

The Northman seemed to struggle against an impulse for a moment. Lothíriel raised her eyebrows, impressed by his control in the face of her uncle’s scorn. His face was white with rage, but rather than speak again, he inclined his head and turned on his heel. His footsteps had not faded before Denethor twisted in his black chair and looked straight at her.

“Niece, come down.”

Face burning, Lothíriel stood. “Yes, uncle,” she answered.

She glanced at the Northman, who was just outside the doors. He had turned and was staring at her uncle with narrowed, angry eyes until the doors closed on him. Troubled by the stranger’s fury, Lothíriel ran down the stairs to her uncle’s side.

“Well, child,” Denethor said in Sindarin, “you had better have a good excuse.”

He was grim, but Lothíriel had not spent a lifetime sneaking around past her curfew to be frightened by old men asking questions. Her rueful smile was only partially contrived, and she sat on the dais step at Denethor’s feet with a sigh. “I was curious, uncle. I have never seen a Northman before. I didn’t know they were so big.”

“That one was uncommonly tall,” Denethor allowed. He shifted in his seat, the chainmail under his robes clinking slightly. Lothíriel leaned against his knee, and he put a long hand on her hair. “But he has some blood of Númenor. Most are of lesser height than us.”

“I suppose that makes a difference,” she said. She plucked at her skirts. “What did he want?”

Denethor’s lips thinned, and his keen gray eyes fixed on hers. She looked up at him with her most innocent look, and after a moment his gaze softened. “Men, supplies, grain… Things better kept for our own people. Enough of Gondor suffers from this endless struggle. We must keep our own safe.”

Lothíriel nodded and pressed her cheek against her uncle’s knee. While she was here at his side, his words rang true.

 

* * *

 

It was only later, when she was walking back around the Court of the Fountain, that she felt the unjustness of Denethor’s words. Rohan suffered at the enemy’s hands, her father had told her, and their king was ailing. Orcs and wicked men hounded Rohan’s borders. But Denethor was too mistrustful of others to offer the help the Oath of Cirion should have bound him to. Even now he had secluded himself in his tower.

Lothíriel glanced skyward. Clouds darkened the sky, and a cool wind blew from the northeast. She shuddered and hastened onwards past the King’s House and the guest quarters. In the absence of the rest of her relatives, she was staying with her uncle in the steward’s lodgings, where a small, south-facing room had been made up for her.

The guards posted at the door seemed relieved to see her. She paused and eyed their lightened faces suspiciously. One of them coughed, and she stepped closer to him.

“My lady,” he said quietly, “you must hurry to your room. The Rohir is as mad as hornet.”

“Really?” Lothíriel said, quite interested. “Where?”

But the guard only gave her a dry look and ushered her inside. The stone door closed behind her with an audible thump.

The entryway was dark and cool as it opened up into the building’s main hall. A servant was washing the floor and stopped to look at her. There was no point in dawdling; she had already discovered that Denethor’s servants were duty-bound to tell what she had done, where she had gone. She supposed her own servants were like that with her father, but by this point, Imrahil had grown used to her wanderings. _He_ trusted her to keep safe. Her uncle, alas, did not. With nowhere else to go, Lothíriel went straight upstairs to her room.

To his credit, Denethor’s chief concern was his niece’s security. And she did not know Minas Tirith nearly as well as she knew her own city of Dol Amroth. But she was eighteen, not eight. True adulthood was still a year and a half away, but almost no one minded youths her age exercising a little independence. Except, predictably, her uncle.

Lothíriel’s room had once been her aunt’s solar, and the wide windows still seemed as hopeful as ever to catch a glimpse of the sea. She climbed onto the window seat and leaned against the sill. If she pressed her nose against the glass, she could see boats along the Anduin, as well as horses and carts and specks of people at the Harlond docks.

It was all unfair, she thought bitterly. If her father or brothers had been with her, she might have stayed in the house of Dol Amroth on the Sixth Level. As it was, she was confined to the Citadel. All alone, with only a mousy maid to attend her—none of her ladies had come, and the other youth around her age in Minas Tirith had much better things to do than attend the girl holed up with their fearsome steward. The only visitors Lothíriel ever saw were Denethor’s sisters and their families, but the two closest to her in age were Denethor’s thirty-year old great-niece and her ten-year old son. Not exactly the company she had hoped for.

The echo of hoofbeats on stone perked her her up.

Horses? She turned in her seat, chewing on her lip. The Rohirrim hadn’t left yet. They must be still in the Citadel, since the guards on the door supposed her to be in some danger from the young lord’s anger. At this hour, they couldn’t sensibly leave the city. And there was nowhere they could be apart from the guest quarters.

That decided it. Lothíriel jumped down from the window seat and wound a long charcoal-colored scarf around her shoulders and hair. If she could manage to find the Rohirrim, she might discover the lord’s name and the true nature of his errand, uncolored by her uncle’s mistrust of strangers. Her father would be pleased.

It was easy enough to sneak out. All she had to do was go behind the outdoor covered privy and slip out through the back gate. She wedged in a stick, kept there by herself for just this purpose, to keep the gate open for her return. The guest quarters, one building over, had a back door as well. Lothíriel hurried through the deepening mist, keeping her eyes ahead. Looking around only made you look guilty.

The back door of the guest quarters swung outwards silently, but all she could see was the back of a tapestry. Of course—the back door to the guest quarters was a secret entrance, meant for spying and subterfuge and secrets. Well, in a sense she was doing all three. Spying for her father, subterfuge to keep her uncle from discovering her wanderings, and secrets to protect herself in this den of strangers. She listened for voices or footsteps, but all she heard was the beginnings of rain.

She slid between the wall and the tapestry and shuffled sideways, holding her breath to avoid disturbing the dust. The hallway she emerged into was dim and narrow, doubtless used exclusively by servants. To the left was the bright light and smells of the kitchens; to the right, two wider hallways led to the front of the building and the guest quarters. She peered down each hallway, wondering which was the quicker way to the Rohirrim’s rooms, but the clanging of pots and the ring of voices from the kitchen made her jump. She scampered down the second hallway, biting her lip as she rushed passed two, three, four doors. Steps behind her seemed to pound up her spine. She panicked.

Lothíriel pulled open the next door on her right and dashed inside. She left the door open a crack and watched a servant with a laden tray walk by moments later, eyes miraculously downcast. She only breathed again once she heard him enter the room next door. At last, she turned to look at where she’d ended up.

The room was a dimly lit bedchamber with a fur rug across the stone floor, a four-poster bed with rich red velvet hangings, and a chest of drawers at the foot of the bed. The chest of drawers was covered with laden saddlebags, and a chair between the narrow windows held a set of fine leather armor. Lothíriel walked to the chair, eyes narrowed; she had seen that armor before. She knelt and ran her fingers along the jerkin’s coiled pattern. This was the Northman’s armor!

Somehow, she had ended up in the stranger’s room. Next door must be a study—there was a door on the side wall leading to the same room where the servant had brought food. Lothíriel gulped, but there was only silence from the other room. Perhaps the Northman was elsewhere. Surely he had other men with him; he could be in one of their rooms.

Wherever he was, he wasn’t likely to be gone for long. It was getting late; if nothing else, he had to eat. Time was of the essence.

Lothíriel scooted over to the chest and checked the top two drawers. Both were empty. The saddlebags, on the other hand, were full. One of the pouches was full of tightly rolled tunics and—she blushed—undergarments. She stuffed those back hurriedly. The other pouch was much more interesting. There was a scroll case! Lothíriel pulled the cap off and shook out the single sheet inside into her hands.

But as soon as she unrolled it, she groaned. It was clearly a letter, but while the alphabet was Westron, the words were indecipherable. Although… Lothíriel squinted and tilted her head. After a moment, she recognized a few simple words, though they were spelled quite different. The letter must be in Rohirric.

The salutation and signature, at least, she could manage. The letter was addressed to someone called Níedmæg Théodred, and the signature read _Éomer_.

She scanned the rest of the letter and blinked. There were two other names written in the body: Denethor, which she expected, and Boromir. Did the Northman know her cousin? How could he? Anyway, what would a stranger have to say of Boromir? Boromir wasn’t in Minas Tirith; he had gone to assault orcs in Anórien. Even Faramir was off scouting in Ithilien. Perhaps the Rohirrim had had better luck learning from the guards in the Citadel than she had.

Lothíriel looked over the letter one last time, resigned. There was nothing more to glean here, not when she was so ignorant of the language. She glanced at the window as she rolled the letter. The misty drizzle had turned to fairly heavy rain, and she frowned at the prospect of getting back to her room unnoticed. A wet trail on the floor was hard to avoid in weather like this.

A bang from the study next door made her jump out of her skin. She stifled a squeak of horror and scrambled to her feet, trying to get the letter back into its case. Heavy footsteps approached the bedroom as she tried to stuff the letter away with shaking hands, and Lothíriel gave up. She left the letter rolled up next to the open case and ran to the door to the hallway, which she wrenched open just as the door from the study swung in. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a silhouette almost too large for the doorway freeze in shock.

Lothíriel ran, heart pounding in her ears. He had seen her! What was she thinking? How could she have been so stupid? Her eyes stung and her breath came in short bursts.

She made it just as far as the end of the hallway before the man caught her by the arm. Terror stopped her heart. His grip was like iron! The man dragged her back toward his room, fingers digging painfully into her skin. Lothíriel had enough sense not to scream—Valar save her if her uncle discovered where she was!—but she struggled and kicked and wriggled as best she could, still reaching for the back wall with her free hand. Her breath came hard and quick. She was too frightened to look at him; she couldn’t take her eyes from her only chance at escape. Her scarf slipped down from over her hair and began to trail on the ground.

By the time the man threw her into his room, Lothíriel was certain her right arm would be black and blue from elbow to shoulder. She stumbled into the corner of the chest of drawers with a weak cry as the man bolted the main door behind her. Three steps were enough for him to cross the room and lock the door to the study as well.

Lothíriel fell heavily, one arm braced against the chest. The fur rug was thick, but not enough to avoid a fresh wave of pain in her knees. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she yanked her trailing scarf from under her and held it to her chin like a shield, pressing her back to the chest. There was nowhere to hide.

The Northman stalked around her, giving her quite a wide berth. Lothíriel cowered as he stood in front of her; she tilted her head up to look at him.

He was taller than anyone she had ever seen. Was he as large as a mountain? From down here, she could believe it. Although he seemed around the same age as Erchirion, who was twenty-six, this man looked nothing like her slender brother. His chest and arms were thick with muscle, and his blond hair was tousled from the chase. A thick beard made his scowl seem fiercer; his eyes were narrowed just as they had been when he’d first set eyes on her.

This time, though, the man’s face changed. He looked… surprised? Yes, he was taken aback, his fury tempered with some confusion.

A flush crept up her neck as she stared up at him. As terrified as she was, and as angry as _he_ was, she couldn’t help but notice that this man was _very_ handsome. His eyes were blue and bright, his face smooth and unblemished above his beard, his hair golden and soft. Her face nearly burned at the memory of the undergarments she had touched with her own hands. Against her will, her eyes dropped to his hips. She opened her mouth, but couldn’t think of a single thing to say. She closed her mouth and swallowed, then looked back up at his face. He seemed even more confused than before.

Lothíriel slowly lowered her scarf and put her hand on the chest to steady herself. The man followed her hand with his eyes until he spotted the loose letter by his saddlebag. His face darkened again and his hands curled into fists as he closed in on her. She squeaked and scooted back, eyes wide, but there was no getting away from a man who could crush her with a single step. He bent over and grabbed her chin in his huge hand; with his other hand, he pulled a dagger from his belt and held it between them. He glared at her from inches away.

“Who are you?” he growled in his accented Westron. “What are you doing here? What does your steward want?”

Trembling, Lothíriel said, “I’m not—” She paused, surprised. “I’m not here because of the steward. I’m here for my father.”

“And who is that?” His grip tightened on her chin, and she felt rather than saw him move the dagger even closer.

“Ow! You’re hurting me!”

The man did not relent, even as tears began to roll down her cheeks. “Why should I not, spy?”

“I’m not a spy, I’m a princess!” Lothíriel wrenched herself away as soon as the man loosened his grip, uncertainty clouding his face. She rubbed her jaw and wiped her cheeks dry. When she looked back up at him, the doubt in his eyes made her bristle. So what if she was technically only a lady? Her father was a prince. Lothíriel’s spine straightened as she climbed to her feet; her gray eyes shone with the keen light of her Númenorean blood. The top of her head was barely level with the man’s broad shoulders when he stood, and he and his dagger were still far too close for comfort, but she lifted her chin proudly and proclaimed, “I am Lothíriel, princess of Dol Amroth. My father is Prince Imrahil, the greatest man in Middle-earth. My mother is Lady Gilmith, the best woman in the world. I am the niece of Lord Denethor, steward of Gondor. I am my father’s treasure, and he will not be pleased if you leave any marks.”

The man raised his eyebrows at her, unimpressed by her speech. But he seemed to believe her, for he slid his dagger back into his belt. “So your father sent a foolish girl to spy on me.”

“Basically,” Lothíriel said brazenly. She reflected a moment. “No, no, he didn’t,” she corrected. “He only wished he could have met you. My uncle sent him away to deal with some upset in Pelargir. Adar wanted me to tell him what happened at your meeting, but I was too late to get into the gallery in the throne room to hear what you wanted. I don’t even know your name!”

The man rocked back on his heels, staring down at Lothíriel with disbelief. He snatched up the rolled-up letter from behind her and brandished it in her face. “How do you not know? Have you not read my letters?”

“Not with any understanding! How could I? We do not speak your tongue in Gondor.”

“But are you not your uncle’s lackey?”

“I’m his niece, not his servant,” she retorted. “And he doesn’t tell me of his troubles to save _me_ the trouble of worrying.”

“I am a trouble?” The man scowled again; Lothíriel shrugged. “To Denethor, I suppose everything outside his own realm is trouble. Hateful man!”

At this, she bristled. It was one thing for her to disagree with him privately, but for a stranger to insult her uncle? That wouldn’t do. “That’s not fair,” she said with a steely glare. “Gondor has its own problems. My uncle’s duty is to keep Gondor safe.”

The man scoffed and crossed his arms. “So he alienates his greatest ally? That is not the way to keep a country safe.”

Lothíriel pursed her lips. She would rather say nothing than speak against her uncle to this man, no matter how sensible he seemed. Something of her feelings must have crossed her face, however, for the man sighed and stepped back.

“I am Éomer,” he said.

“Pleased to meet you,” Lothíriel said automatically.

Éomer snorted. He reached past her for the scroll case and slid the letter inside in seconds. “You are a terrible spy, princess. You have not lied to me at all. I can even tell you don’t mind meeting me, even though I hurt and threatened you before.”

“Can’t spies tell the truth sometimes?” she said, watching him slip the scroll case back into his saddlebag.

“Not like you do. I can imagine you leading an army with greater ease than I can imagine you lying.”

Leading an army? That was as ridiculous as his conviction that she couldn’t lie. Lothíriel thought of the countless half-truths she told her uncle to satisfy him. Only a few hours ago, she had acted as though her only desire in sneaking into the throne room during Éomer’s audience was to see a Northman. She’d said nothing of her father, much less her own genuine curiosity about the subject. “I try not to lie,” she admitted, “but you needn’t lie to mislead.”

“True enough. But men of Rohan do not lie, and therefore we are not easily deceived.”

“Well, I haven’t tried to deceive you. Perhaps you would find yourself taken in if I did.”

“I doubt it,” Éomer said. “I can see all of your thoughts on that wide open face of yours.”

Lothíriel, remembering the undergarments, turned quite red. “All of them?”

He narrowed his eyes at her, this time as though he was trying to peer straight through her skull and into her mind. “Perhaps not. I still do not understand why you came here. But you don’t seem to have an answer to that.”

“No,” she said slowly, twisting her scarf in her hands. “I know why I came. I wanted to do right by my father.” She glanced aside, wondering what her father would think of her if he could see her now. Interrogated, threatened… a failure. Her face fell.

“Your father is important here?” Éomer asked.

“He is second only to my uncle, and perhaps my uncle’s sons.”

“Then I shall tell you what you want to know, if there is a chance he can change your steward’s mind.” Éomer stood straight as she had. “My name is Éomer, but more importantly, I am the sister-son of Théoden King and Third Marshal of the Riddermark. I have come to ask your kinsman for renewed alliance in the face of the enemy, and I have been refused. Tell your father that Rohan suffers. Tell him that even if he is sworn to serve a cold man with no thought of his neighbor that there are those in Rohan who will not forsake the oaths of our fathers.”

Lothíriel gazed up at Éomer, her lips parted. He looked more like a lord now than he ever had before, with his broad shoulders set back and his blue eyes keen and bright and determined. She could see the blood of Númenor that her uncle had said ran through his veins. A blush crept up her cheeks. Here was a man as worthy as anyone she had ever met.

Éomer frowned when she said nothing. “Will you remember?” She nodded vigorously. “Good.” He unbolted the door to the hallway and peered out. “The way is clear,” he said.

“Thank you,” Lothíriel said, and headed past him.

But Éomer put a hand on her arm as she passed him, gently this time. She gazed up at him, and the soft look in his eyes made her knees weak. She swallowed.

“This war is vile,” he said. “I pray that you do not suffer for it.”

“That is everyone’s prayer,” she answered. She stepped past him; his hand fell from her arm. She turned to look back at him with a wry smile. “But it is the nature of war that everyone suffers.”

“Well, you should not have to.”

“Why not, if everyone else does?” Lothíriel glanced around; there was no one coming. She looked back up at Éomer. “The only just way is for all to suffer, or none. I hate this war as much as anyone, but I’m not going to wish myself immune while others are afflicted.”

Éomer smiled, and though Lothíriel could think of nothing she’d said worth smiling over, the transformation of his face took her breath away yet again. A smile that perfect shouldn’t be allowed, she thought.

He took her hand and pressed it tenderly. “However much you may suffer, I pray that you do not despair.”

“Nor I you.” She squeezed his hand and pulled free. “Valar bless you. And may your future bring you the victory you rightly deserve.”

She hurried away, not daring to look back at him.

As she scurried through the rain, she thought of her own words. A deep unease settled over her, far heavier than her dripping scarf. As long as her uncle ignored the plight of Gondor’s ally, were they really doing all they could? Weren’t all men worthy of aid? Didn’t all men deserve not to suffer?

Lothíriel shuddered.

It was the nature of war that everyone suffered. How much suffering would fall on _him_?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She thumped back against the column and squeezed her eyes shut with disappointment. Even if Éomer did show up, he probably wouldn’t care whether he saw her or not. From all she’d heard, he’d had a busy two years fighting orcs and wild men. All she’d done was stay holed up in Minas Tirith. She couldn’t imagine that their encounter was as compelling for him as it had been for her. How often had she run through their discussion? How often had she thought of him? No doubt far more often than he had ever thought of her."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy day 2 of Éothíriel Week. I hope you enjoy!

_T.A. 3019  
_ _May 1_

A Northman was pacing in the throne room.

Lothíriel had paused from her trip down the long staircase of the Tower of Ecthelion when she heard her new king’s voice through the door to the gallery. She had been going through her uncle’s study at the tower’s summit now that her father had taken away all of the important documents. No one seemed to mind if she read through Denethor’s more trivial correspondence. Denethor’s private life interested no one, not now that a new king had come among them.

Two new kings, really, if you counted the king of Rohan.

She had pushed open the door just enough to see down into the throne room, and after a moment realized that it was the king of Rohan who was pacing in the hall. Lothíriel’s heart thumped in her chest; King Elessar was speaking to his counterpart, but she couldn’t make out any of his words.

After a minute, the Northman stopped pacing. He turned on his heels to speak and Lothíriel saw his face clearly for the first time.

Éomer was just as she remembered. As before, he was proud and tall and gloriously handsome. She caught her breath and stared at him with wide eyes, mindless of her surroundings. His beard was shorter now, and his face was more careworn, but for all that his eyes still glinted with keen intelligence. How she could have missed his good looks when she first saw him here? She couldn’t imagine. Perhaps her nerves had gotten the better of her. From the fluttering in her stomach, she wondered if that was the case now, too.

The sound of footsteps behind her, much more audible than the voices in the hall, made her jump back from the door. She whirled around and found herself face to face with her brother Amrothos, who smirked.

“Spying again?” he said. “I thought you swore off of that old habit.”

Old habit? There was nothing so casual about her last two years in Minas Tirith, keeping her nose to the ground and her eyes on her increasingly troubled uncle. Amrothos spoke as though she had enjoyed misleading Denethor and his councilors with her feigned innocence at the deteriorating state of affairs in Gondor. But as helpful as she knew she had been in keeping her father fully apprised of the situation, her work on Imrahil’s behalf had brought her nothing but doubt and grief. How could she shrug off lying to her own kin?

Face flushed, Lothíriel flounced past her brother and headed down the steps. “I wasn’t spying, I was just curious. No one was supposed to be in there, so when I heard voices I went and looked! There’s no harm in it.”

Amrothos soon caught up to her with his longer legs. “I could have told you. It’s just Éomer.”

“Well, you weren’t there, were you?”

He shrugged.

“Anyway, I saw him for myself,” Lothíriel said. They left the Tower through a side door, and Amrothos tucked her arm through his.

“That’s right, I forgot. You’ve seen him before.”

Lothíriel nodded but said nothing. She had not told even her father the details of her encounter with Éomer, nor even that she’d met him in person at all. For all her family knew, she had spied on his meeting with her uncle. All she had relayed was the message Éomer had given her. She could still remember his words: _There are those in Rohan who will not forsake the oaths of our fathers_.

And just a month and a half ago, all Gondor had learned the truth of Éomer’s words when his people had ridden from their homeland to break the siege of Minas Tirith. Lothíriel had been gone from Minas Tirith even before Mithrandir arrived; her uncle had sent her away to Lossarnach with the rest of the women and children and elderly. She hadn’t gotten back to the city until a few days ago, when she accompanied the last group of returning refugees. Minas Tirith without Denethor was a more daunting prospect than she could bear, not to mention the idea of a new king from the north usurping her cousin’s place as Gondor’s leader.

But Lothíriel had gleaned from her family’s letters that they all thought Elessar, as he was called now, was worthy of the throne. He had saved Faramir, fought with Boromir, freed Pelargir from the Corsairs, and led the armies of Gondor and Rohan to the Black Gate. If her father approved, her cousin approved, and the people approved, there was nothing to do but accept it. Or try to, at least.

Amrothos, meanwhile, was already onto a new topic. “Are you looking forward to the feast tonight?”

“The feast? I suppose. I don’t like crowds. And they don’t use enough spices in Minas Tirith.”

“Aie, isn’t that the truth! I visited Faramir in the Houses of Healing a few weeks ago and the stew was blander than stillwater! And you should have seen our mother struggle to smile through dinner with Lord Húrin the night before you arrived. His veal tasted like chicken!”

Lothíriel joined her brother in roundly insulting the cuisine of Minas Tirith. If nothing else, she thought, at least this would make her smile.

 

* * *

 

Before she’d been at the feast for twenty minutes, Lothíriel was regretting ever leaving Lossarnach. Her head was pounding. Merethrond, the great feasting hall, had never been so full. Soldiers, lords, and ladies were packed tightly; lively troubadours were playing into the gallery above. No one was bothering to keep their voices down.

As soon as she was free from the obligatory greeting of her cousin Faramir and the new king, Lothíriel slipped away from her family and secluded herself behind one of the columns along the edge of the room. It was still noisy, but she was at least spared the overwhelming sight of hundreds of people. Great gatherings at the palace in Dol Amroth had been difficult for her, but at least then she’d had some companions. Some of them had come with their families to Minas Tirith to celebrate the new king, but there was little for Lothíriel to say to them. What could they possible talk of? They had no notion of how her life had been over the last two years. She felt as removed from her former friends as if she were still hundreds of miles away. They seemed more interested in everyone else, and Lothíriel could hardly blame them. Joyous as the celebration was, she was still sullen. Her uncle had been her closest companion, and now he was gone. No one else seemed to feel it as she did, not even Faramir. His newfound lady had cured him of his woe, but Lothíriel had no such luck. Denethor’s death hung almost as heavily upon her now as it did when she’d first heard of it.

Time passed, and the crowd swelled with greater numbers. Lothíriel stayed put. However bland the food might be, the smells of the buffet at the far end of the hall wafted seductively. But there was no way she was going to elbow her way through the crowd on her own. Her mother was busy helping play hostess, and her father was busy politicking. If Amrothos ever found her, she’d ask for his assistance. But Lothíriel couldn’t spot him. After a few minutes, she abandoned the search for her brother and turned her eyes to the door.

Every so often, a couple would slip into her hiding spot holding hands or with their arms around each other. She didn’t mean to frighten anyone away, but they always stopped short at the sight of her and quickly left her alone. After the third such instance, Lothíriel reached up to touch her face. Was there something stuck to her? No, nothing. Maybe her gloom was more obvious than she thought.

Lothíriel kept an eye on the entrance, but she didn’t spot the one face she most hoped to see. She worried the inside of her lip, frowning.

Where _was_ Éomer? He hadn’t been with King Elessar, nor with Faramir. And even though Lothíriel was hardly tall enough to see most people’s faces, she should have been been able to see Éomer. He was as tall as Elessar, and she could pick her king out of the crowd at once. She stood on tiptoes and peered around one last time.

No luck.

She thumped back against the column and squeezed her eyes shut with disappointment. Even if Éomer did show up, he probably wouldn’t care whether he saw her or not. From all she’d heard, he’d had a busy two years fighting orcs and wild men. All she’d done was stay holed up in Minas Tirith. She couldn’t imagine that their encounter was as compelling for him as it had been for her. How often had she run through their discussion? How often had she thought of him? No doubt far more often than he had ever thought of her.

“There you are! I wondered where you’d snuck off to.”

Amrothos’s cheery voice made Lothíriel jump. She spun to face him. Finally! He could take her to the buffet.

“I…”

Her voice caught in her throat. Just behind Amrothos stood Éomer, looking at her intently. She stared up at him. Éomer was as handsome up close as she remembered, his blue eyes just as keen. He held a pewter goblet full of rich Amrothian wine, and he wore a golden circlet across his forehead. His long golden hair was half tied up, but much of it flowed freely over his broad shoulders. Lothíriel swallowed.

Amrothos was amused at her silence. “You always have been tongue-tied with strangers.” He pulled Éomer forward and presented him to Lothíriel with a bow. Louder, he said, “Sister, here is Éomer, King of Rohan. Éomer, here is my sister, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth.”

“We’ve met,” Éomer said. His voice was light despite the intensity of his gaze.

“Really?” Amrothos glanced between them. “I didn’t realize.”

Éomer turned to Amrothos and put a large hand on his shoulder blade. “Perhaps you will get your sister a drink.” He walked forward, pushing Amrothos away as he did.

“Well, I suppose…”

Amrothos meandered off, glancing back at them with eyebrows raised.

Lothíriel watched her brother go. Once he was swallowed by the crowd, she turned slowly back to Éomer. He was close to her now, only a couple feet away. The noise of the crowd seemed to quiet against the pounding of her heart in her ears. With effort, she drew her gaze up to his face. He wasn’t smiling.

“Hello again,” he said. His voice was low, but she could hear him perfectly. He stared at her.

“Hello,” she said. She knit her fingers together, shy under his scrutiny. The last time she had seen him, she had worn a youth’s high collar on her dress and her hair in a net. Now she was grown, and although her body had hardly changed since their last encounter, she knew she must look different. A fitted bodice, a low neckline, her hair flowing loose down her back… Éomer had called her a foolish girl, but there was no mistaking her for a girl now.

Neither of them said anything for a long moment, and then they both spoke at once.

“I looked for y—” he began.

“I didn’t think—”

They stopped as one, and Lothíriel bit her lip. She gestured for Éomer to continue.

“You never told your family how we met,” he said.

Lothíriel shook her head. Was he disappointed? She couldn’t tell. Yet he must not have mentioned it either. She wondered at it—he had grown quite close with her father and brothers over the last month and a half, after all. She wondered too what he had originally been going to say, but she didn’t have the nerve to ask.

Éomer waited for her to respond, but she kept quiet. He glanced past her at the crowd. “You do not mingle?”

“No.” She shuddered at the thought. “There are too many. And I don’t know what to say to them.” Under her breath, she added, “They’re all so happy.”

He stepped beside her to look across the room, and after watching him for a moment, she did the same. Not far away, a gaggle of soldiers were cheerfully wooing a clump of young women; Lothíriel spotted some of her former companions among them. Elsewhere, her eldest brother was in talk with Faramir. No one looked anywhere near as gloomy as she’d been all evening. She sighed.

Éomer put a hand lightly on her arm, and she turned back to him. He was still turned toward the crowd, frowning a little at some people nearby who were watching him out of the corners of their eyes.

“You are right, there are too many. Will you walk with me?”

Lothíriel hesitated. Amrothos would miss them, and the people watching them would talk. But the prospect of fresh air and open space was too tempting to turn down. “If you will lead the way out,” she said.

“Of course.” Éomer pulled her arm through his and led her through the crowd. Somehow, a path appeared before them as they headed to toward the doors. Éomer deftly set his goblet on a servant’s tray. Lothíriel clung to Éomer’s broad arm—even with her hand just in the crook of his elbow, she could feel how strong he was—and glanced at his face. No wonder the crowd parted before them; Éomer’s expression brokered no argument. His eyebrows were drawn low, and his face was severe even when he nodded to his own men. Lothíriel gaped up at him. He did look down at her once before they made it to the door, and he shot her a shadow of a smile that made her blush and look away.

By the time they made it outside and past the clump of people near the doors, Lothíriel was overheated and short of breath. Even with a relatively clear path, the room was too warm, and Éomer was so tall that she had to skip to keep up. Fortunately, he slowed to a more reasonable pace now that they were outside. He led her quite a distance from Merethrond before he stopped.

They were alone in the shadow of the Tower of Ecthelion. The sun had set, though it was still fairly light out. Lothíriel hesitated; she did not want to let him go. She felt as though he was the only person in Minas Tirith who might understand how she was feeling, and if she let him go, the connection she felt would break.

How silly of her to think so! Éomer was almost a stranger. He wasn’t the embodiment of her hopes and dreams. Lothíriel shook her head sharply and pulled her arm back. She walked to the tower and pressed her hand to the marble, staring unhappily at the white stone.

Éomer came and leaned against the tower to watch her. “You are still troubled,” he said, scratching his beard. “Why? We are free from the crowd.”

“It’s not…” She squeezed her eyes shut. What could she say? She was too shy to talk about how she felt about him. She cast about for something, anything to answer with. “It’s so strange. So much has changed so quickly, and no one seems to be thinking of the old days but me.”

He whistled low. “That is not true.”

Lothíriel flushed. “Well, no one I know.”

Éomer said nothing. He looked back to Merethrond, face drawn inward. Lothíriel kicked herself and turned away. Stupid! Éomer was clearly as plagued as she was, but she couldn’t find the words to express sympathy. It was as though she’d forgotten how to speak what she felt. She’d spent so long acting as her uncle wished: dutiful, obedient, unassuming… Expressing whatever her uncle wished her to, lest he regard her with the same displeasure he usually reserved for fools and Faramir. After two years of forging her own feelings, Lothíriel felt like the girl who had met Éomer in a dark room and boldly declared her purpose was beyond her reach. It was one thing to go back to the old ways with Amrothos—teasing and sarcasm and defensive retorts were all well and good. She’d lived eighteen years with her brother. But with Éomer, she had nothing to fall back on. The only thing she had with him was one brief memory.

The silence stretched on and on. Her stomach twisted into knots and she dug her balled-up hands into her ribs. Why on earth had she come out here with him?

Why couldn’t she think of a single thing to say?

She turned her head just enough to look over her shoulder. Éomer was even more grim than he had been when forging through the crowd, and a cloud of grief hung heavily over his face as surely as it did over hers. So why was he blessed with courage and skill, and she was cursed to be a frightened fool?

“You know,” Éomer said suddenly, and Lothíriel jumped, “you were less fearful before.”

“What!” She turned to face him, incredulous. “You held a knife to my throat, and you say I am more afraid now than I was then?”

He waved this away. “You were only afraid as long as the knife was out. But now…” He stepped closer, and she struggled to remain calm at his closeness. If she reached out, she could touch him. “You are practically shaking.”

“I am not afraid,” she said stubbornly. She crossed her arms and lifted her chin to look him in the eye. His eyes, so downcast before, glinted with amusement, and her shoulders slumped in defeat. “Well, if I am, it’s only because I don’t know what to say.”

“No?”

Lothíriel shrugged, arms still crossed. Éomer leaned back against the Tower of Ecthelion again and crossed his hands behind his back. Cautiously, Lothíriel did the same about a foot away.

“It has been a long time, hasn’t it?” he said. He sounded resigned.

“It never felt so long ago as it feels right now,” she said. She stared at her feet. The gulf between them that she had feared was looming ahead, racing towards her like a wall of darkness.

“Well, it has been longer now than ever before,” he pointed out.

A smile flitted across her face. “True. But…” She looked at him again. He was right there, handsome and solid and _real_ , and Lothíriel was rendered speechless once more. She stared up into his bright blue eyes. It was as though she was falling into them.

“What is it?” he asked.

She swallowed and lost her courage. “A lot has happened,” she said lamely. Her gaze slid away from him. “After we met, things only got worse. And I couldn’t do anything about it. All I could do was wait and see, and obey my uncle, and—”

“Your uncle?!” Éomer recoiled. “You stayed with him?”

“Yes?”

Éomer looked disgusted. He kept his distance.

Lothíriel sighed. “He was unkind to you, and mistrustful, and I am sorry he was. You did not deserve it. But he was still my uncle. I loved him. And he was glad to have me near him.”

“So you became his lackey?”

“What? No!” Lothíriel said. “I was useful to—”

“ _There_ you are!”

Lothíriel sprang away from the tower at the sound of Amrothos’s voice ringing across the courtyard. He strode towards them holding a goblet, which he held out to Lothíriel as soon as he was close enough. She took the drink reluctantly. She was too confused to give her brother the glare he deserved. Why did he have to come just when she was trying to explain herself?

Lothíriel glanced up at Éomer; his face was unreadable, and he was beyond arm’s reach now. Her stomach sank. There was so much she had wanted to say, but her feelings were at more of a distance now than Éomer himself.

“I know it was crowded, but you might have warned me you were leaving,” Amrothos said. He led them back towards the hall, chattering about everyone he’d seen in his search for them. Even as they stepped into the light spilling from Merethrond, Lothíriel could read nothing in Éomer’s face. He was only listening politely to her brother, barely sparing a glance for her even when she willed him to look at her.

“Excuse me,” she managed, and fled.

She didn’t have the heart to turn to see if he was watching her go.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Excuse me,” he said, dangerously polite. He radiated tension, but Lothíriel was unmoved. This was her chance to explain herself; she could not have asked for a better one.
> 
> “No,” she said, surprising even herself. Despite the dimness, she could sense his shock. “Not until you greet me as a friend.”
> 
> She could practically hear him grinding his teeth.
> 
> “We are not friends,” he told her. “Pray excuse me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DAY THREE. The week progresses, so does our story!
> 
> In this chapter, Lothíriel sings a song which I adapted from "Er quan renovella e gensa," a medieval Italian song by Sordello. You can find the original lyrics online. I though it'd be nice to include a song, since they're so common in Tolkien. The song she sings is not particularly relevant, in case you were wondering. Just a self-indulgent treat :)
> 
> Hope you enjoy xoxo

_T.A. 3019  
_ _18 July_

Faramir had been more than happy to let Lothíriel finish clearing out Denethor’s study high in the Tower of Ecthelion. When she had first seen it in May, it had been disorderly and more than a little dusty. Her father had done the more pressing work of taking away the important documents, leaving only trivial things behind.

Despite her other duties—helping her mother run the household on the Sixth Level, and then waiting on her new queen once she had come from the north—Lothíriel had been able to snatch some time to herself in the Tower once or twice a week. And now, finally, she felt quite satisfied with her work. All of her uncle’s private correspondence was organized neatly in piles on the polished oak table Denethor had used as a desk. Quite a lot of it was very old. There were stiff, yellowed letters from his father, his sisters, and even his wife Finduilas, Lothíriel’s aunt, who had died over a decade before Lothíriel was born.

Lothíriel turned from the table to the many shelves lined with scroll cases and the new additions of all of Denethor’s trinkets. Her eyes fell as usual on the seashell mosaic that she had made for her uncle as a girl with Aunt Ivriniel’s help. The mosaic had been in a chest of drawers with a few other keepsakes from his family, including a pearl necklace that Lothíriel suspected had been his wife’s.

The necklace was on the table wrapped in velvet, and Lothíriel turned from her mosaic to pick the parcel up. She emptied the necklace into her palm and ran the long string of pearls through her fingers. It felt familiar. She had a necklace just like it at home in Dol Amroth.

Faramir had promised to meet her here now that she had finished, and she was planning on giving him his mother’s necklace when he came. It was his by right, and she had a strong suspicion that she knew exactly who would be the next to wear it.

Lady Éowyn had done more than take the Witch-king’s life; she had stolen Faramir’s heart as well.

Lothíriel had barely had a chance to meet Lady Éowyn, for her own foolish awkwardness had led her to feign illness after her second, ill-fated encounter with Éomer until a few days after the Rohirrim had left. She winced at the memory of that week spent alone in her room; her malady hadn’t seemed feigned at the time. She really had been nauseous, weak, and weepy—and it didn’t get better once Éomer and his people had left. If anything, she’d felt worse.

Her whole encounter with Éomer at the king’s coronation feast seemed like a bad dream. How was it that she’d gotten so afraid of him? And how had he so thoroughly misunderstood her? She’d thought of him so often; the memory of their first meeting had given her as much drive to help Gondor as anything else. Not to mention the wishful daydreams… She shook her head sharply and dumped the pearls back into their velvet pouch.

Had the years with her uncle really changed her so much?

Yet despite her fearfulness and his ill-founded disgust, Lothíriel could not but think that Éomer of Rohan was a good man. He had been kind to her even when she had spied on him, and he had wished her well. He had hoped that she would be safe and happy, and she could not fault his current behavior apart from his misinterpretation of “staying with my uncle.” No, at the heart of it, he was a good man. Her father and all her brothers sang his praises whenever he was mentioned. Of course, they also bemoaned the dismal circumstances in Rohan.

Lothíriel sat in her uncle’s chair at the oak table, brooding. Éomer was on the road to Minas Tirith now; he was expected this very evening. How had he left things in Rohan? Had his months of work attending to his land and people paid off? Did he have the victory he deserved?

By the time Faramir came up, Lothíriel was curled up in the chair, her hands clasped around the velvet pouch.

“Mae govannen, cousin,” Faramir said. Lothíriel stood hastily and straightened her skirts.

“Mae govannen,” she repeated. She crossed the room to embrace her cousin. “How are you?”

“Well,” he said. “I always wondered why Father chose this place for his office. It does not invite visitors. But I begin to see its draw now that it is neat and occupied. I may yet join you here!”

“It is your study,” she pointed out. “Not mine. I’m only here by your leave.”

“Well, I’m glad you are.” Faramir settled in the chair by the table and began to look through the neat piles. He picked up one particularly aged parchment. He raised his eyebrows and let out a low whistle. “Lothíriel, look at this.”

Lothíriel peered over his shoulder.

“This speaks of Thorongil. That’s King Elessar,” Faramir explained.

“Oh! I didn’t know of Thorongil back when I sorted that,” Lothíriel said. She scanned the letter; it was from Denethor’s sister Arthes. Arthes, who was past ninety now, seemed to have been just as abrasive then as now. Lothíriel bit back a smile at the lady’s derision for Denethor’s _totally unnecessary distress, particularly since the man was doing a perfectly good job at getting himself sent off to foreign parts and probably killed while he’s at it_.

“I imagine this was written around the time when he led the attack on the Havens of Umbar,” Faramir said. “He went to the East after his return.”

“It seems like there’s nowhere our king hasn’t been,” Lothíriel remarked. She sat on the edge of the table, careful to keep her skirt clear of the parchment. She played with the velvet pouch in her hands. “And nothing he’s not done.”

“He’s an extraordinary man,” Faramir said. He glanced at her lap. “What have you there, cousin?”

“Oh!” Lothíriel passed Faramir the pouch at once. “I think these were your mother’s.”

Faramir poured the pearls into his cupped palm. His eyes widened. “Yes, they were. I remember these. She wore them often.”

“They must have reminded her of home,” Lothíriel said. “I have something similar.”

“Do you? I have not seen you wear them.”

“They’re at Dol Amroth. At least, I assume they are.”

Faramir frowned. “You haven’t been home in a long time, have you?”

“Not so long,” she argued. “Only a couple of years.”

“That is a long time at your age,” he said. Lothíriel rolled her eyes, but Faramir continued. “You will be going back to Dol Amroth soon, won’t you? I am sure you miss home.”

Lothíriel caught her breath. She so seldom thought of her home by the sea that the thought of it now took her by surprise. The palace at Dol Amroth, situated on the cliffs above the beach; the bells of Tirith Aear, the lighthouse within the city walls; her mother’s solar, with its silk hangings and cushions. She sighed. Yes, she was homesick, but no tears came to her eyes. Lothíriel was not her aunt Finduilas, forever pining for the salty air and the thrum of the waves of the sand.

“I do miss home,” she said. “But I do not pine for it. I will be glad to be back again, though.”

Faramir patted her hand fondly. “Of course.” He put the pearls away and tucked the pouch into his belt, then began to go through the piles. After a few minutes, Lothíriel bade him farewell. She had no doubt that he would rather read his father’s personal letters in private.

Lothíriel started down the long winding staircase. The tower had few windows here, and it was quite dark in the shadowed areas. But the stairs were even and not too steep. Armed with her many weeks of experience, Lothíriel jogged down easily. She began to hum a song from Belfalas; the sound echoed around her. Giddy, she began to sing in time with her steps.

“Now that the summer has come ‘round again  
The land’s decked with foliage and flowers  
I wait, I wait, I wonder just when  
I can climb to my lady in her tower  
She is kept alone in the fair blue sky  
Her father is jealous that she loves me  
But I can wait, I will wait, oh my  
Until the day I can set my lady free.”

Just as she finished, she went down into a dark part of the staircase and ran into a wall.

“Augh!”

Lothíriel bounced back, reeling. Her momentum was shattered, and she was afraid that her nose was, too. She blinked back stars and lifted a hand to her face.

The wall backed off a short way down the staircase into the light. Lothíriel blinked, then blanched. It wasn’t a wall. It was Éomer, and he was staring up at her with tempered concern.

“Are you alright, princess?”

_Princess_. Lothíriel realized that he had never once called her by her name. But that was an intimacy she could only hope for, given the current strain between them. And what was he even doing here? The Rohirrim weren’t expected until dinnertime. Had she lost track of time, or had they arrived early? And why on earth was he at the Tower of Ecthelion? Surely he hadn’t come for her sake. But a ball of hope flared in her chest at the thought.

“I’ll live,” she answered, more cheerfully than she felt. “Good day, my lord.” Her voice was firm; whatever he thought of her, she would no longer let herself be afraid.

Éomer was much more simply dressed than he had been at the coronation feast. With his longer beard, he looked more like the marshal of old that she remembered. His blond hair was in two thick braids across his shoulders, and Lothíriel felt a sudden urge to pull out their bindings and run her fingers through his soft hair.

Color rushed to her cheeks. She shouldn’t be having such thoughts, especially not about a man who was looking at her with a frown. Thank the Valar for the darkness. She doubted Éomer could see her blush.

“Is Lord Faramir above? I was told so,” Éomer said.

“He is,” she said. Her stomach dropped. Of course he was looking for Faramir. They would be kin soon—Faramir and Éowyn were to be betrothed after Théoden’s funeral. Her cousin was joining the dead king’s escort to Rohan, along with her father. The rest of her family was returning to Dol Amroth.

Éomer bowed and stepped up, but Lothíriel did not move aside. He was forced to halt only two steps below her. Lothíriel bit her lip at his closeness; her breath came short and shallow. Her heart thudded in her chest; could he hear it?

“Excuse me,” he said, dangerously polite. He radiated tension, but Lothíriel was unmoved. This was her chance to explain herself; she could not have asked for a better one.

“No,” she said, surprising even herself. Despite the dimness, she could sense his shock. “Not until you greet me as a friend.”

She could practically hear him grinding his teeth.

“We are not friends,” he told her. “Pray excuse me.” He put one foot on the step right below hers and put his weight on it.

Lothíriel stuck her hands on her hips. With her elbows out, she was a greater obstacle, though a man of Éomer’s size and strength could easily barrel past her if he chose.

“I thought warmly of you once,” she said. She winced. _Once?_ How about _always?_ Despite her frustration at how he had jumped to a false conclusion in May, she had never thought of him as a bad man. She had only privately bemoaned his long absence and her own debilitating fear.

Éomer shifted his weight away from her, brows furrowed. “You are… kind to say so,” he said, clearly confused by her strange declaration.

“I said you deserved a victory,” she said. “But now that you have got it, you have forgotten that I did.”

“Perhaps I misremember,” he said drily, “but you spied on me and tried to run, first. And then I find you stayed with the man who dismissed me and doomed my country to two further years of grief. Béma only knows what could have been avoided had your uncle proved less hard-hearted!”

By the time he finished, his voice had risen in anger.

It was a great effort not to shout back. Lothíriel knew far better than Éomer how much Gondor had suffered. She knew it as she knew the feel of her aching bones whenever she had heard of some fresh calamity, some new loss of land or life. She felt it now.

“I could never sway my uncle,” Lothíriel said, voice wavering. She took a breath. None of this fear! She straightened her spine and jabbed her finger at Éomer. “I stayed for my father, and for Gondor. As I told my father of your plight, so I told him of all else he should know! My uncle did not always want my father’s advice. He was secretive and mistrustful. But he trusted me!” Her voice was ringing as loud as his had now. “He trusted me, and I helped my father keep Gondor safe!”

Silence fell. Unconsciously, Lothíriel matched her breathing with Éomer’s.

All of a sudden, Éomer let out a bark of laughter.

“Wha—”

“I am sorry!” he blurted. He reached out and squeezed her hands. The feel of his calloused fingers curled around hers set her heart thumping. “I beg your pardon, my lady. I was blinded against Denethor, so much so that I forgot that I do know you.”

A weight lifted from Lothíriel so swiftly that she actually felt taller. A beaming smile spread across her face. Was it so easy to convince him of the truth? Praise Elbereth! Let all of her misunderstandings end with such joy!

“I was hoping you’d remember,” she said. “After all, my face is wide open to you.”

Éomer looked at her closely, then shook his head and pushed her up a few steps back into the light, keeping pace with her. He peered at her again, and her smile faded under his scrutiny. Her lips parted as she stared at him. His eyes were bright and gentle; the shadows on his face were soft. The sight of him so close and the feel of his hands on hers was enough to make her blood rush to her cheeks and into the pit of her belly.

“So it is.” He kept his face tilted up to hers.

Did she imagine it, or was he drawing closer? Lothíriel swallowed, and her fingers trembled in his.

At once, Éomer dropped her hands and stepped back, suddenly troubled. Lothíriel’s heart sank. Was it something in her face?

“Now,” he said, “may I pass?”

She stepped aside and pressed against the outer wall, no longer able to meet his eyes.

He paused a few steps above her. “Valar bless you,” he said, and then he was gone.

 

* * *

 

That evening in Merethrond, the great feasting hall, Lothíriel sat with her mother and brothers at a table right next to King Elessar’s high table, where he sat with her father and cousin, the Companions of the Ring, Queen Arwen and her people, and Éomer and his chief lieutenant. Lothíriel had managed to snag a seat where Éomer and Faramir, seated side by side, were in view. She watched them; it was no great surprise, really, that two such good men would be easy friends.

Her mother, seated beside her, squeezed her hand after the soup had been cleared away.

“Lothíriel, you have been distracted ever since you returned from Denethor’s tower,” Gilmith said. Her soft, heavily lidded eyes narrowed as she looked Lothíriel over. “Are you well?”

“Of course, Naneth,” Lothíriel said. She tore her eyes from the high table and smiled at her mother, who had followed her gaze to Faramir and Éomer.

Gilmith tilted her head, frowning. “Did Faramir upset you? Was he not grateful for your work?”

“Of course not! He was very happy. He found a letter that Lady Arthes wrote to Uncle Denethor when King Elessar was serving under Lord Ecthelion.” Lothíriel grinned and nodded to a table a little down the room, where wizened Lady Arthes sat among her children and grandchildren, all of whom were at least ten years older than Lothíriel. “She was as brusque then as she is now!”

“Hush, that is unkind,” Gilmith scolded, though her eyes twinkled. She patted Lothíriel’s cheek. “But I do love to see you smiling.”

“Oh please, Naneth…” But Lothíriel blushed happily as she tucked into her veal. She had gone years without seeing her mother, and two months was not enough to make up for it.

Her middle brother Erchirion, sitting on her other side, chuckled. “She’s not the only one, you know,” he whispered. Lothíriel looked at him, surprised. “All of us are glad to have you back. I’m eager to have you home again.” He raised his voice so Amrothos and Gilmith could hear as well. “How long has it been since we sailed together, or explored the tide pools?”

“Tide pools? Not since Lothíriel was a little girl,” Amrothos said, turning from his conversation with his friends from Pelargir. “I could stand to go back. I wouldn’t mind some swimming, either. Nothing like the sea to cleanse the spirit, hm?”

“Oh, yes!” Lothíriel clasped her hands together. “I haven’t been swimming in years!”

Amrothos’s friends, a pair of brothers not far from Amrothos in age, turned interested eyes on her. The younger of the two was rather more obvious about looking her over, and she flushed and returned to her food.

Her brother’s friends were the sons of a lord in Pelargir. The elder had earned a fierce scar along his forehead during the war, but apart from that the two were almost as handsome as her brothers. Neither, of course, was as handsome as Éomer.

Lothíriel blinked into her plate. Her eyes rose unbidden to the high table. Éomer was sitting with his hands on the table and his eyes on Queen Arwen.

Why had she started comparing other men with him?

She tried to read his gaze. He admired Arwen; who would not? But why didn’t he look at her that way? She knew she could never compete in looks with her half-elven queen, but she was not so bad for a daughter of Gondor. And he knew her as he couldn’t possibly know Arwen.

Jealousy curled in the pit of her stomach, and she quickly tempered her features to conceal her scowl. What was the matter with her? She had no cause for envy. Everyone looked admiringly at Queen Arwen, even Lothíriel herself. Yet when Éomer looked, she cared.

The conversation around her dulled to a blur. She slowly set down her spoon. Had she… fallen in love with him?

“Lothíriel?” Erchirion’s voice cut through her fog. “Are you alright?”

“I—I think so,” Lothíriel said. She glanced at her brother. Erchirion’s concern was clear in his narrow gray eyes. “I am, I am.” She busied herself with her meal and took a hearty drink of rich Amrothian wine. Naturally, she swallowed wrong. Her eyes watered, and she coughed.

Erchirion laughed and rubbed her back. “Sister, never change.”

Lothíriel didn’t dignify that with a response. Once the tears in her eyes and the stinging in her throat receded, she returned her eyes to her food. Though she ate quite sedately, her mind was reeling.

All of this seemed unreal. Was it possible to fall in love without realizing it? She could have been hit by a flying brick and felt less shock. It was all beyond belief.

Although… was it so unbelievable? She had met him and witnessed his beauty and valor while still an impressionable girl, and for the last months, his praises had been sung from every rooftop. Handsome, brave, lucky—a seasoned warrior who had fought in countless battles without a scratch marring his perfect features or any injury disrupting his grace. And now, his first achievements in restoring his homeland were being toasted by King Elessar himself. Erchirion was nodding along to their king’s praise, and at the high table, Éomer bowed with humble thanks to his sworn friends.

She would have had to be blind, deaf, and dumb to overlook him.

King Elessar finished his toast, and Lothíriel drank deep. When she set down her cup, she looked one last time at the high table. Her heart clenched at the sight of Éomer reaching over to clasp Queen Arwen’s hand.

Faramir sensed her gaze and caught her eye. Lothíriel raised her eyebrows at him, and he nudged Éomer. For the first time all evening, the king of Rohan turned his bright eyes on her. A flush spread across her face and down her neck. Although Éomer looked withdrawn, he dipped his chin to her. Lothíriel bowed her head in return, but by the time she looked up, he had turned away. Her hand spasmed in her lap.

She was neither blind, deaf, nor dumb. She could never overlook him.

So why did he have to overlook her?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Who? Who is plagued?" Lothíriel wrung her hands and craned her neck towards the guest lodgings.
> 
> "It is one of the king's lieutenants," he said. "Or so I was told."
> 
> Tension seeped out of her. If Éomer was alright, then she could relax.
> 
> "But I am not convinced," Mardil continued. He leaned his head towards Lothíriel and lowered his voice. "I would not be surprised if it was the king himself. I remember his first visit here, and his rage then was no small thing."
> 
> Lothíriel bristled at that. "He was right to be angry," she snapped. The guard raised his eyebrows, and she flushed. "I mean..."
> 
> "My apologies, lady," he said, clearly bemused. "But passion can be its own plague."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day four, chapter four—we're on a roll! Happy Wednesday, and I hope you enjoy!

That night, Lothíriel lay awake in bed on her side with one bare leg clasped to her chest. She'd left the south-facing window flung open, itching for a salty sea breeze. She had never done so before, but tonight Minas Tirith was more stifling than it had ever been while she had been with her uncle. The walls of the city were like a vice on her heart.

Even in the weeks leading up to the siege, the general dread had not affected her in this way. The darkness had been nearly catastrophic, but for all that, it wasn't personal.

This was.

She thought of how Éomer had looked at Queen Arwen at dinner, with wide, awestruck eyes. What would it be like for him to look at her that way? Lothíriel shut her eyes and ran her fingers across her face and down her neck, imagining his gaze lingering there. She shivered and quickly pressed her hands to the soft sheets, wishing they were cool.

But summer in the city was hot, and there was no balm for her desires now. She couldn't even speak of it, for who was there to talk to? Certainly not her brothers. Definitely not her father. Even her mother seemed like a dangerous choice. Perhaps if she felt the master of her feelings... No, for now, nothing was sure enough to discuss. She didn't yet know if what she was feeling was worthy.

And despite their reconciliation, she could not imagine Éomer ever feeling the same way.

He had been troubled by something yesterday in the Tower of Ecthelion. Perhaps he had seen her feelings in her face before she had known of them herself. Typical, she thought. She was wide open to him, but a stranger to herself. Well, whatever he had seen, it had bothered him, and a man bothered by a lovestruck girl was no more likely to love her back than the Anduin was to flow away from the sea.

Lothíriel bounced her head against the bed. What use was it, anyway? She barely knew the man. They'd spoken only three times, and never without something going wrong. He'd attacked her, he'd misunderstood her, and then he'd been disturbed by her. How could he think more than kindly of her after all that? And why did she think so fondly of him?

For she did. She really did. Even the thought of him melted her— his voice, his face, his eyes... The feel of his hands on hers had been enough to undo her. Lothíriel hugged herself tight and willed herself to come back to her senses.

She thought of the couples she knew best. There were her parents, but her parents had been married for over fifteen years by the time she was born. Any miscommunication had been long smoothed over by experience, and now they worked so well together that they seemed to know each other's mind on every matter.

Her eldest brother, Elphir, who had already returned to Dol Amroth, had been married only four years ago. She remembered his unusual jitteriness during the weeks leading up to his betrothal, but she had been too young to see much of their interactions. A man of nearly thirty did not spend much time with a sister of sixteen.

But Maenil, Elphir's wife, had mentioned offhand her initial dislike of her husband. Maenil said that Elphir had been awkward and stuffy the first few times they'd met, and she'd been summarily unimpressed. But over time, they had found a harmony together.

Over time being the operative words, of course. Lothíriel couldn't imagine where she would find the time to create harmony with a foreign king. Éomer had far more pressing matters to attend to than entertaining her fancy, and far more esteemed persons to spend time with. King Elessar, Queen Arwen, her cousin, her father and brothers... And of course, his visit now was only three more days. On the fourth day, Theoden of Rohan was leaving the hallowed halls of Minas Tirith, and Éomer was going with him.

And Lothíriel was going home to Dol Amroth. True, she was bound to see Éomer again at Faramir and Eowyn's wedding, but that wouldn't be until at least the spring. And in the meantime, there would be doubtless be pretty, eligible women paraded past him at every opportunity. He was a king after all, and he was the last of his line. Between that and his looks, his strength, and his renowned heroism, any woman would be mad to look past him. Éomer would have his pick.

If he wasn't married by next spring, there had to be something really wrong with him, she thought bitterly. Maybe even something as bad as what was wrong with her.

Lothíriel heaved a great sigh and got up. There was no chance of sleep now; she was too worked up. So much pent up frustration was running through her that she felt like running herself. She shimmied into her shift and pulled on and laced a woven kirtle and matching sleeves. It wasn't quite fully dressed, but the thought of additional constraint was more than she could bear.

For precaution, she did put on her seal ring. No one could deny her with that, even if they thought her mad.

The house was silent, and she hurried through the corridor and down to the courtyard without meeting a single soul. The moon was over half full; it lit the streets with a milky glow.

The gate guard recognized her at once. "Off to the Citadel, my lady?"

"Yes, please."

Lothíriel bounced on her toes as she waited for him to open the gate, and as soon as there was room, she slipped through.

Ever since her return to Minas Tirith from Lossarnach, she had lived in her father's house on the Sixth Level. But from time to time over the last two months, she had left the house at odd hours to return to her former home in the Citadel. She could not enter the steward's house and visit her old room (although Faramir might not have minded, if she'd had the gall to ask), but she often walked around the Court of the Fountain. Many of the guards in the Citadel knew her; only the newest, installed by her father, Lord Hurin, or King Elessar, had not seen her wandering around the old White Tree while she had been in residence. Now, of course, there was a new tree—young, strong, and flowering.

The streets were quiet at this hour. Her father's house was quite close to the Citadel gate, and she was there within minutes. The two guards let her through the gate without preamble, and Lothíriel headed up the curving ramp to the highest, and safest, part of the city. Once she emerged from the tunnel, she breathed deep and turned as she walked to take in the shadowed mountains to the west and the courtyard around her. No one could object to her coming here; the only danger was falling asleep on the grass. And that was not likely to happen now.

Lothíriel made her way to the White Tree and the fountain beside it. She circled the sapling and ran her hand around its trunk. If nothing else, it was nice to be able to touch the tree without worry. The old one had always seemed about to crumble.

As she circled the tree, she looked over the marble buildings. There was Merethrond, then the Tower of Ecthelion rising above the sweeping throne room. The King's House, and then the steward's lodgings, and then the guest quarters. She quickly looked away. Éomer was staying in the guest quarters, and despite a fleeting wish to sneak in as she once had, there was no way she could go in there now. Two years ago, she'd had the excuse of youth; if she did the same now, she would seem either foolish or shameless beyond words. Or both.

She sat gingerly on the lip of the fountain, head drooping, and trailed her fingers in the tepid water. The closer she got to Éomer, the more out of reach he seemed. He was just inside that building there, but there was no way in.

Lothíriel squeezed shut her eyes and lifted her hand flat out of the fountain. But before she could dash her palm against the water, a loud shout echoed across the Citadel.

She leapt to her feet, hand dripping, and stared aghast towards the guest quarters. She raced towards it, but when she saw the guard standing at the edge of the courtyard, she halted. It was the same man who had warned her two years ago of Éomer's fury. Mardil, that was his name. What had he said? Ah, yes—mad as a hornet.

Mardil recognized her at once despite her unfinished appearance. "My lady," he said with a sharp bow.

"What was that?" she demanded. "Who screamed?"

"One of the Rohirrim is plagued, I would guess. This happened often when they were here in May. This is the first time since they arrived."

"Who? Who is plagued?" Lothíriel wrung her hands and craned her neck towards the guest lodgings.

"It is one of the king's lieutenants," he said. "Or so I was told."

Tension seeped out of her. If Éomer was alright, then she could relax.

"But I am not convinced," Mardil continued. He leaned his head towards Lothíriel and lowered his voice. "I would not be surprised if it was the king himself. I remember his first visit here, and his rage then was no small thing."

Lothíriel bristled at that. "He was right to be angry," she snapped. The guard raised his eyebrows, and she flushed. "I mean..."

"My apologies, lady," he said, clearly bemused. "But passion can be its own plague." He bowed and turned back to face the tree.

But Lothíriel was not satisfied. No matter who the nightmares had struck, someone was suffering. She couldn't pretend she hadn't heard that traumatized shout.

"Sir," she said, "do you speak to the servants there?" She nodded towards the guest quarters.

Mardil turned back to her, skeptical. "Not often, my lady."

"Could you ask them to send chamomile tea to the Rohirrim?"

"Chamomile...?"

"It relieves bad dreams," she explained. "Perhaps it has already been done, but I would not wish to deprive them of the chance for peaceful sleep. It can do no harm."

He pursed his lips. "That is kindly meant, my lady, but I doubt it will do any good. Such dreams are not so easily ignored."

"Isn't it worth trying?" she pleaded, eyes wide.

He sighed. "Very well. But I cannot leave my post. I will go at dawn and speak to the housekeeper. Shall I give your name?"

"Please don't!" she cried softly. "Whoever it is, they have enough to worry about. They don't need their pride wounded too."

For the first time, Mardil smiled. "You are indeed kind, my lady." He bowed deeply. "Valar bless you."

"And you," she answered. She wished she had any money to give him for his trouble, but she had left the house with nothing. She smiled tightly at him and made her way slowly back to the fountain, glancing back at the guest house every few steps. The place was silent now, at least from what she could tell. By the time she was back at the White Tree, her tension had abated.

Something the guard had said came back to her. Passion can be its own plague. Lothíriel sighed. She had never really thought about it before, but it was true. Back during her days with Denethor, her conscience had kept her up at night. Now that she was finally acting in good faith, her newly discovered passion was sending her from her bed. Was there no way for her to win?

No, not unless her passion cooled... or was fulfilled.

Lothíriel shuddered and covered her burning face; one hand was still damp from the water. She ran it across her hot forehead before collapsing at the base of the White Tree with her head propped up against her palms and her elbows digging into her knees. Her loose hair fell around her like a dark veil.

Why couldn't she rid herself of this? There was no hope for her, none at all. Even among her former companions were ladies better suited to Éomer, ladies with polished manners and easy speech and no stupid dislike of crowds. _They_ had not spent the last two years attending to the man whose mistrust had hurried Rohan's decay. Even if Éomer had forgiven her, it was silly to think his councilors would too, and Lothíriel was not so ignorant to think that any relationship with the King of Rohan wouldn't be a political matter first of all.

Lothíriel turned her head to look towards the guest quarters and nearly jumped out of her skin. A tall, broad, shadowy figure was silently approaching the fountain, head bowed. Lothíriel's mouth dropped open and her stomach flipped.

It was Éomer!

She tucked her loose hair behind her ears hurriedly and pulled herself to her feet. Éomer spotted her at last and halted some ten feet away.

"My lady," he said. He took a few more steps towards her, brow furrowed. "I did not see you."

Lothíriel ducked her chin, face once more hot. "My lord." She glanced at the guard she had spoken with not five minutes before, but he was facing away from them, probably on purpose. A cursory look around revealed the other guards around the Court of the Fountain all similarly looking the other way.

"What are you doing here?" Éomer asked bluntly.

She blinked, her nerves somewhat tempered by her bewilderment. "I often come here. It's the safest place to walk and think. And..." She bit her lip, unsure if bringing up her former abode was a damning tactic. Well, whatever— it was the truth. She lifted her chin. "I did live in the Citadel for two years. When I had trouble sleeping, I came here. It's solitary. Usually."

Éomer's lips twitched, but he nodded. "Quite." He sat down on the lip of the fountain, his long legs stretched out in front of him and his arms crossed over his chest. Like her, he was underdressed: just a pale linen shirt worn loose over leather trousers. She had never seen him so disarmed, and yet his strength was more tangible than ever. With every motion, his muscles shifted the folds of his shirt.

"Did you hear the screaming?" he said, voice low. He turned his face up to her. His hair fell loose around his face in a soft frame; his eyes were piercing despite the faint light.

Lothíriel caught her breath and nodded. She cautiously sat beside him and pressed her hands together between her thighs to keep herself from touching him. Éomer looked at the White Tree; Lothíriel looked down at her lap.

"It is your lieutenant?"

Éomer hummed an affirmative.

"I am sorry," she said. "No one deserves such, especially not the heroes of this war. It's bad enough you all had to fight it once, never mind every time you close your eyes."

Lothíriel peeked at him and was surprised to see that he was looking at her. She swallowed and fixed her eyes on the tree. With everything that had happened today, she didn’t think she could handle meeting his gaze anymore.

“Thank you,” he said. His gruff tone masked something else, something less controlled. Was he discomfited by her words, or just upset for his friend?

She wished she knew the magic words that would ease him. Her throat tightened at the thought that her absence might be what he hoped for. But surely he knew he was free to leave…

“What do you remember?” Éomer asked.

“What—what do you mean?”

“It’s past midnight,” he said. “Surely you did not come here because you have untroubled sleep.”

Lothíriel kept her eyes resolutely on the White Tree. She scrambled for an appropriate response. She certainly couldn’t speak the truth, not right now. But she could say why she had first started coming here in the middle of the night.

“Before the siege, when I was living with my uncle, my conscience kept me awake,” she started. She risked a glance at Éomer; he nodded her on. “It was very hard, especially at first. I was lying to him, and for all his faults he was my uncle. And he was very fond of me. It was so hard to smile to his face and kiss his cheeks and pour him tea while knowing that every letter I sent to my father was a betrayal of his trust.”

“Why did you do it?” Éomer leaned forward and leaned his elbows against his thighs. “Surely you were not ordered to. I cannot imagine Imrahil—”

“Oh, no, of course not,” she said quickly. “There was never any coercion. My mother didn’t like it at all. She wanted me home with her, especially as time passed. I just… I knew I had done right by passing your words on to my father, and he was grateful for it. He told me of his concerns, and I knew everyone else was doing their part, so I decided to try and help where I could. There was no way I could fight as your sister did, but I didn’t only want to sit and wait. It was hard enough not knowing what—”

She broke off. She had been about to say _hard enough not knowing what had happened to you_ , but such thoughts did not belong here, not now. That was no way to offer comfort.

“Not knowing what?” Éomer urged.

“Not knowing what would happen,” she finished. She glanced at him again; his gaze was direct, and his doubt was clear. But he had enough manners not to press her. Lothíriel forged ahead. “And towards the end, when things grew even worse and my uncle ordered the city evacuated, I felt like all that I had done was for nothing. I had shamed myself for nothing.”

Éomer frowned and sat up. “Shamed yourself? What do you mean?”

Lothíriel cast him a very dry look. “Surely you of all people can understand that blame often casts a wider net than is strictly true or fair.”

He winced, but she continued on before he could apologize. He had done so already, she thought firmly; there was no need for him to repeat himself.

“Whatever other people thought,” she said, “I knew that what I was doing was not right. It’s wrong to lie to your kinsmen, and it’s wrong to betray a trust.”

“He never suspected you?” Éomer asked. She shrugged; he shook his head in disbelief. “I am shocked,” he said frankly. “It seems impossible that your own kinsman should know you so little when I can read the truth on your face so well.”

Lothíriel jumped to her feet and pressed her hand over her mouth. He knew everything! How could she face him now?

But Éomer chuckled at her dismay. “Peace, princess. Come sit. I only meant that I can sense your truthfulness as easily as I can see the moon and stars. I cannot read all your secrets.”

She sank back down. Her hands shook until she clasped them together again. His ignorance of her feelings for him was almost worse than the thought of him knowing. At least if he knew it, she wouldn’t have to tell him. As it was, she was stuck torn between speech and silence.

“I am glad for your company,” Éomer said after another minute. “You have eased my mind.”

“Good!” she said at once. She smiled; Éomer leaned over to look at her face, and after a jittery moment she looked up at him. He was smiling too.

“There,” he said, “that is a good smile.” He reached out his large hand and tucked her loose hair back behind her ear.

All of a sudden, it was too much for her. His smile, his touch, his kindness; his frank attention. Lothíriel stood up and stepped away.

“I should go,” she said. “Thank you, my lord.” She ducked her chin.

Éomer stood slowly. “Will you be alright on your own?” His voice was soft and concerned. Lothíriel squeezed shut her eyes and memorized his words, his tone. The temptation to accept his company and wrap her arm around his as they walked was almost too strong to overcome.

“Yes,” she whispered. She cleared her throat. More firmly, she said, “Goodbye, my lord.”

“Good night, my lady.”

He did not follow her.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She paused a minute, listening in on her brothers’ conversation.
> 
> “What do you think is going on?” Erchirion asked.
> 
> “I don’t think she likes Éomer very much,” Amrothos said. “When I saw them at Elessar’s coronation feast, she looked upset.”
> 
> “That’s possible,” Erchirion said. “But I wonder.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thursday! Enjoy!

The next two days passed in a whirlwind. Lothíriel ached for another chance to speak to Éomer—to say what, exactly, she wasn’t sure—but no such opportunity presented itself. She was kept busy on all fronts. Queen Arwen continued to require Lothíriel’s presence in the mornings, though all the other noble ladies waiting on the queen were far more gregarious and Lothíriel suspected no one would miss her if she failed to attend. And as soon as she got home, her mother enlisted her help in overseeing the preparations for the two journeys. Imrahil was leaving for Rohan with King Theoden’s funeral escort on the fourth morning; that same day, Lothíriel and her mother and brothers were headed south to the Harlond docks, where a ship was waiting to take them home to Dol Amroth.

Before, the thought of returning home had been a comfort. After two long years in Minas Tirith, she was eager for the chance to run free along the cliffs and beaches. But knowing that her journey home would take her even farther from Éomer shredded her anticipation.

The only place she saw Éomer was at the evening meals at Merethrond, where she and her family were valued guests. But Éomer, King of Rohan, was always seated at the high table with the other revered statesmen and foreigners. All she managed during the first two days were a few empty comments about their upcoming journeys. Every brief interaction left her longing for something more, but there were always people watching and listening. And her busy days left her too fatigued to return to the Citadel after dark.

By the time the third day came, Lothíriel felt exhausted and irritable. For once, her mother allowed her to excuse herself from attending on Queen Arwen, but it was more for her own sake than Lothíriel’s.

“There’s still so much to do,” Gilmith said, and so Lothíriel’s morning was spent running around the house, snapping at every interruption and feeling awful for her brusqueness every time.

After a brief lunch, Lothíriel at last was given leave to lie down. She stormed into her room and flung herself face down on the bed, not caring in the least that her kirtle was dusty. What did it matter? It was so hot that she was as likely to strip the bed tonight as use the blanket.

She squeezed shut her eyes. The dull ache in her gut that seemed to be a constant now flared at the thought of her looming separation from Éomer.

Silly, she scolded herself. She was already separate from him! They had nothing together, just a handful of surprise encounters that had left her confused and overwhelmed.

“Lothíriel?”

Lothíriel groaned aloud at the sound of Amrothos’s voice from outside her door. Was she to have no peace at all?

“What do you want?”

“Éomer’s come to visit, and Naneth wants you to come down.”

Lothíriel opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She sat up and cleared her throat. “Alright. I’ll be down in a minute.”

Amrothos’s footsteps faded away, but Lothíriel did not move just yet. This was the most forewarning she’d ever received. Every other time she had met Éomer, it had been a shock, and she’d been thrown off. No wonder he thought he could read her so well—she’d never been prepared to meet him before!

She closed her eyes and took slow, deep breaths. She thought of Éomer’s face, his body, his voice, and steeled herself against it. There was no way she was going to completely lose her cool in front of her brothers and mother; it just wouldn’t do. She wasn’t going to gape, or blush, or cry. No shortness of breath, no trembling fingers. She breathed deep and carefully brushed away the dust of her morning’s work.

Calm settled around her like a blanket.

By the time she left her room, Lothíriel felt like she was watching herself from a distance. She hadn’t felt so since her uncle’s time, but this had been her strongest defense against Denethor’s suspicion. And though it had been several months since she’d needed to be on her guard, all of it came back quite naturally.

A servant was waiting to open the door to the downstairs parlor for her.

Lothíriel stepped inside.

“Ah, there you are, Lothíriel,” Gilmith said. Her mother, who was sitting in her customary chair, smiled and beckoned her forward.

Lothíriel glanced around the room. Amrothos, Erchirion, and Éomer were all standing and looking at her, and she smiled politely at them all. To Éomer, she said, “Hello, my lord.”

Gilmith gestured for everyone else to sit. Erchirion and Amrothos sat back down on their short bench. Before Lothíriel could make for the chair across from her mother, Éomer offered her a seat on the settee next to him. She sat as close to the edge as she could without seeming rude.

“Good day, princess,” Éomer said. “I hope you were not too disturbed by my visit. I wanted to wish your family a safe journey and to thank you all for your hospitality.”

“You are kind to do so,” Lothíriel said. She did not hold Éomer’s gaze, instead turning to her mother, who nodded.

“I am never happy to part from my husband, King Éomer,” Gilmith said, “but knowing he is in company such as yours relieves me greatly.”

Éomer pressed a hand to his heart and inclined his head in thanks. “His friendship has brought me many blessings.” He grinned brightly at Erchirion and Amrothos. “And I am glad to know his sons as well.”

“Well, you’re alright,” Amrothos allowed, though his eyes glinted with pleasure at the compliment. Erchirion and Gilmith looked satisfied, too.

A faraway part of Lothíriel shattered with dismay, though outwardly she was as pleased as the rest. Wasn’t Éomer glad to know her, too?

Well, even if he _was_ glad, there was no good way for him to say so. Almost none of their conversations were common knowledge; her mother and brothers—not to mention the rest of the city—might well think that she and Éomer had only ever had a conversation more than perfunctory greetings at that first feast back in May.

Lothíriel shook herself back to the present.

Erchirion was talking about tomorrow. “—where there’s a ship waiting for us. We’ll go down the Anduin through Pelargir, and from there west to Dol Amroth. We may make it to Belfalas before you reach Edoras, from what I understand.”

Éomer’s face darkened, but after a glance at Lothíriel, he recovered. “Well, however long it takes, may your journey be smooth and safe.”

“And yours,” Amrothos said.

Lothíriel watched Éomer as Erchirion echoed Amrothos. Éomer was still troubled, and it was no wonder. Their journey was to be easy and peaceful; Éomer’s journey would be laden with his uncle’s bier. Damn her self-inflicted reserve; this wasn’t the time to stick to niceties.

She turned to catch Éomer’s eye; he looked to her at once.

“I hope,” she said, “that your friends can bring you some comfort on your journey. My lord.” She could see her brothers raising their eyebrows out of the corner of her eye, but she held Éomer’s gaze firmly. “And I doubt any poet could give King Theoden all the praise he deserves, but may their songs do him as much justice as men can.”

Everyone was silent for a moment. Lothíriel only cared about Éomer’s response; the rest were bound to speak their minds later. Éomer’s face was impossible to read as he stared at her, but after a minute his face softened. Had she not guarded herself against him, she would surely have melted under that sweet look.

“Thank you, princess,” he said. His hand, resting on his thigh only a foot away from her, inched in her direction, but a glance at her mother had him clenching his knee instead of reaching for her. He turned deliberately to Gilmith and again bowed in her direction. “All of your children deserve praise, my lady,” he said.

Gilmith’s fond expression was overwhelming. “Until you have children of your own, my lord,” she said, “you will not know how grateful I am for your words. Lothíriel has long been away from home, and I did not see her for over two years—” here she gave Lothíriel a significant look— “but she has always made me proud.”

“Thank you, Naneth,” Lothíriel murmured, cheeks warm. Her mother had often spoke so in the last few months, but Lothíriel was far from sick of it.

“Your pride is well-placed,” Éomer said. “Princess Lothíriel has always been worthy of it.”

“Always?” Erchirion asked, skeptical. “You have not seen much of her.” He turned his narrow eyes on Lothíriel; Amrothos’s gaze darted between her and Éomer.

Lothíriel’s heart stopped, though her calm expression did not waver. How could Éomer have been so careless? Did he not understand the conclusions that everyone would jump to if they heard of all of their meetings? Alone in the dark not once or twice, but three times?

Well, she wasn’t going to let him stumble into a foolish confession.

She shrugged at her brothers before Éomer could speak. “We did meet two years ago, if only briefly,” she said. She turned to Éomer, still nonchalant. “And again at King Elessar’s coronation feast.”

“Yes, when you two vanished on me!” Amrothos broke in. “It took me forever to find you.”

“Oh, that. I asked King Éomer to escort me outside, where the crowds would be less overwhelming,” Lothíriel said, feigning embarrassment. She looked at her lap and twirled her thumbs together. “I don’t know if I ever thanked you for that, my lord.” She turned once more to Éomer, whose stare was nearly a gape. She blinked innocently at him, and—thank the Valar—he regained his poise.

“No need at all, princess,” he said, though his look was cautious and not at all friendly.

“Lothíriel,” Gilmith said, surprised, “you never mentioned that you actually met King Éomer on his first visit to Minas Tirith.”

“It didn’t seem worth mentioning,” Lothíriel answered, eyes wide. “It was not unusual to meet the folk who came to visit Lord Denethor.” She did not look at Éomer, but she could hear his breath catch at the mention of Denethor’s other guests.

The faraway part of her felt awful; Éomer was so clearly bewildered and suspicious of her behavior that she wondered if this would be the encounter that irrevocably shredded his trust in her. Did he think that she had made a habit of visiting strange men in their rooms?

Her mother, as ever fully alert to awkwardness, turned the conversation to other, safer topics: Lady Eowyn and her impending betrothal to Faramir, the weather, a comparison between the cuisines of Gondor and Rohan.

Lothíriel did not say much more. She watched whoever was speaking with a polite, bland smile. The only real contribution she made to the conversation was joining Amrothos in his disdain for the bland flavorings used in Minas Tirith.

Once Lady Gilmith finally escorted Éomer out, Lothíriel jumped up from her seat at once. It had really only been fifteen minutes or so, but she felt a headache coming on nonetheless.

“Lothíriel…”

She turned to Erchirion, who was watching her with a dubious frown, and shook her head. “Naneth said I could get a nap,” she said firmly. She jabbed a finger at Amrothos, who raised his eyebrows. “You interrupted me before, so you can tell her where I’ve gone.”

“Very well,” Amrothos said. Erchirion looked about to speak, but Amrothos waved him off. “Later, Erchirion. Our sister doesn’t look so well.”

Lothíriel stuck out her tongue at him and flounced out, pulling the door shut behind her. But she paused a minute, listening in on her brothers’ conversation.

“What do you think is going on?” Erchirion asked.

“I don’t think she likes Éomer very much,” Amrothos said. “When I saw them at Elessar’s coronation feast, she looked upset.”

“That’s possible,” Erchirion said. “But I wonder.” A chair scraped against the floor, and Lothíriel jumped and ran to her room.

 

* * *

 

Tonight was their last night in Minas Tirith. The farewell feast for the kings and their retinues was as grand as the welcome feast, and Lothíriel dressed with extra care. Her silvery-gold gown was embroidered with glinting gold birds; her long hair was curled and held back from her face with a glittering tiara. Her mother lent her some of her own jewels, including a heavy sapphire pendant and matching earrings. She felt as lavish as a queen.

Before she left, she counted out some coins into a small purse and tucked it into her skirt. She never had thanked Mardil for his consideration the other night, and he deserved it.

When Imrahil saw her before they all headed to the Citadel, he drew in a happy breath and kissed her hair.

“You are a true daughter of Dol Amroth, Lothíriel,” he whispered. His gray eyes shone proudly down at her, and rather than letting one of her brothers escort her, he drew her hand into the crook of his own arm and kept it there until she had to greet her king and queen at the feast. Éomer, she noticed, had not yet arrived.

“Lady Lothíriel, I was sorry to miss you this morning,” Queen Arwen said. Her melodious voice was tinged with regret.

Lothíriel blushed. Arwen was clearly sincere. To think how relieved she had been to stay at home!

“I beg your pardon, my queen,” Lothíriel said, face drawn.

Gilmith took Lothíriel’s hand. “The fault is mine, Queen Arwen,” she said. “I begged my daughter’s help in preparing for our journey tomorrow. It was unfair to keep her from you.”

Queen Arwen reached out her white hand and each of them kissed it in turn. “It is forgiven,” the queen said. “I will miss both of your company, and I hope to see you in Minas Tirith again ere long.”

Lothíriel and her family withdrew to their seats. By the time Lothíriel was settled, this time with her back to the high table, Éomer’s retinue had been announced. When she sensed him approaching the dais, she started to turn her head, but caught herself. There was nothing to see, she told herself. She kept her gaze to her own table.

Amrothos’s friends, the two young lords from Pelargir, were far more gallant than they had been during the other meals they’d eaten together. Their attention heightened her color, and her blushes at their flattery only made them grin. Thankfully, the presence of her mother and brothers kept them from doing anything too outrageous.

After Lothíriel had finished eating, she excused herself and slipped down a servant’s hallway to a back door. She could feel Erchirion watching her, but she ignored his gaze. Whatever he was thinking, and she was pretty sure he suspected that she and Éomer had some sort of secret, all that she was off to do was to thank Mardil and gift him some coins for his trouble the other night. And there were a number of latecomers still streaming in; nothing untoward at all. There was no harm in talking with a Citadel guard.

Mardil was surprised and grateful for her gift. As Lothíriel headed back to the feasting hall, she had a skip in her step and her chin was high. She had done a good thing, and Mardil’s appreciation and approval were gratifying.

It was good to do such things.

She entered Merethrond through the same door she had left it. The hallway was lined with pantries for food and shelves for dishes. Almost every shelf was clear, and the pantry doors were ajar; most of them were empty, too.

As Lothíriel passed a doorway halfway down the hall, she paused. A shadow inside had moved. Was someone in there? She stopped at the door, wrinkled her nose at the overwhelming smell of smoked meat and dried fruit, and peeked inside.

“Wha—”

Éomer reached out and pulled her in, closing the door firmly behind her. He positioned himself between her and the door, breathing heavily from his rapid movements. He’d gotten her inside in the space of half a breath.

Lothíriel’s mind whirled. She was thoroughly trapped in, and the pantry was dark and small. Éomer still had his hand clasped around her wrist, and her heartbeat rose dangerously as she recovered her senses.

What in Elbereth’s name was he doing?

She wrenched her arm from his grip and pressed herself against the wall. “What are you doing?” she hissed. She wasn’t afraid at all, only shocked.

“I wanted to talk to you,” Éomer said, “but you were determined to avoid me.”

“What are you talking about?”

She felt rather than saw him gesture his hands emphatically towards her.

“I thought you had been possessed this afternoon!”

Lothíriel blinked.

Éomer sighed. “You hardly looked at me,” he said, sounding much subdued. “You were as a stranger. I thought—” He broke off and shifted back against the door. A little light came in through thin gaps in the wooden door, outlining his broad silhouette. His shoulders were slumped. “I see now how your uncle was so fooled. I suppose I wanted to know if I had been, too.”

“Of course not!” She was angry now, angry at his mistrust and doubt. He knew her! He had always known her. How could he think she would have deceived him? “But my family can’t know how we’ve met, Éomer! Don’t you understand?” Her stomach clenched, but she forged ahead. “There are only so many times you can meet in secret before you’re forced into a betrothal!”

A heavy silence fell, punctuated only by their breathing.

After a minute, Lothíriel’s chin dropped. She pressed her teeth together and focused hard on her breathing. No tears, she told herself. No tears.

Éomer began to speak, but stopped before he’d formed any words. He did this two more times, and each time Lothíriel’s heart pounded until it became clear he wasn’t going to say anything.

Finally, he sighed. Lothíriel glanced up and saw him run his hands through his hair.

“That would be unfortunate,” he said.

Lothíriel’s heart fell as if down a bottomless chasm. She could read nothing in his tone, nothing at all. No disdain, but no warmth either.

“No one likes to be forced into things,” she said shakily. “Excuse me.” She stepped around him, forcing him to move aside for her. If he’d loved her at all, he would have kissed her. The thought brought tears to her eyes, and she wrenched open the door and strode out.

Right into Erchirion.

“Erchirion!” Lothíriel blanched and blinked back tears. Behind her, Éomer stepped out, large and looming. He bowed to her brother and strode back to the hall without another look. Erchirion stared after him.

Lothíriel inched away, but her brother grabbed her elbow before she could make her escape. His gray eyes held hers fast.

“What is going on, Lothíriel?” he demanded. “Why are you crying?”

She shook her head and squeezed shut her eyes.

“What did he do?”

“Nothing!” Her eyes popped open. Erchirion did not look convinced. “He did nothing. Nothing happened, Erchirion. Nothing at all.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, but she pressed her lips together and said no more. For what felt like an age, he tried to read her face, but there was no lie there. He stepped back, more suspicious than ever. Lothíriel looked away and sniffed.

Erchirion signed. “Thank the Valar we’re leaving tomorrow,” he muttered. “Come on.” He tugged her down the hallway back towards to the courtyard. “I’m taking you home.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t dislike him, Amrothos. He just… He’s not…”
> 
> She huffed and rode in silence for a minute. Amrothos was uncharacteristically patient while she looked for the right words.
> 
> “He… I… Oh, _rhaich_!” she swore.
> 
> “Huh,” Amrothos said. “Maybe Erchirion was right after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter before the epilogue (and bloopers)! Hope you enjoy~

_T.A. 3020  
_ _17 May_

“The only thing that could outshine this wedding as the event of the year would be if Queen Arwen announced that she was pregnant,” Amrothos said. He was leaning against the main-mast, his face in the sun.

Lothíriel laughed and twisted her hair into a rope to keep it from blowing in her face. “At this point the baby wouldn’t even be born until next year, and babies aren’t babies until they’re actually born. Nothing can eclipse our cousin!”

They were sailing up the Anduin to Harlond. Faramir’s wedding was in only three days. The rest of their family had been in Minas Tirith to assist with the preparations for weeks. But Lothíriel and Amrothos had been left behind. Imrahil had told Lothíriel that she’d missed spring in Dol Amroth too many times to leave so soon, and so she had stayed on.

Spring in Belfalas was beautiful, but she would have rather been back in Minas Tirith with her cousin. It had been ten months since she’d seen him, not to mention her lovely queen. Arwen had written to her three times over the winter, asking after her health and other rather mundane topics. But the letters were kind, and Lothíriel had long since realized that she quite liked Arwen. Her own melancholy last summer had spoiled her enjoyment of her queen’s company, but she was determined to make the most of it now.

They docked at Harlond, where the portmaster himself greeted them. Enough of their things had been taken with the rest of the family that they were able to ride north for Minas Tirith as soon as their horses were grounded and they and the two Swan Knights accompanying them were mounted.

The Rammas Echor, the outer wall surrounding the Pelennor Fields, had been fully rebuilt, and the fields inside were green and growing. It was nothing like how it had looked a year ago, with the whole place trampled and ugly from the battle. Even the oliphaunt skeletons had been taken away.

Lothíriel turned in her saddle to grin at Amrothos, who looked as awestruck at the transformation as she was. “It looks like Minas Tirith again!” she exclaimed.

“It’s grand,” Amrothos said. He tilted his head as if to peer around the marble gate of Minas Tirith itself. “I wonder whether the dwarves have started rebuilding the gate yet.”

“Let’s find out!”

Lothíriel spurred her horse into a gallop, laugh bubbling out of her as Amrothos yelped and shouted after her. Her hair unwound and flew wild behind her; the late morning sun glinted on the marble walls of the city as she rode through the fields. Farmers stood to watch her go by.

She didn’t gallop all the way to the gates, but when they were finally in sight, Amrothos let out a sigh. The gates had not been renewed; they were still the same placeholders as before.

Lothíriel rode closer to him and reached out to pat his shoulder. “I’m sure they will be beautiful when they are rebuilt,” she told him.

“I wish I could see what they’ll look like,” he grumbled, but he shot her a smile. “I know what I’d do with them. They’d be glorious.”

A dozen riders emerged from the gates; the one in front blew a short horn. Lothíriel shielded her eyes to make them out and promptly lost her breath. They were Rohirrim, and though there was no making out his face, she recognized Éomer at once.

“Hey!” Amrothos cried, delighted. “Look, Lothíriel, it’s Éomer!” He turned to her, but she only sat in her seat and stared stiffly ahead as the party of Northmen rode east, away from them. “Oh. I forgot you don’t much like him.”

This was ridiculous enough to shake her out of her stupor. Lothíriel turned to her brother, glancing at the Swan Knights. They were safely out of earshot.

“I don’t dislike him, Amrothos. He just… He’s not…”

She huffed and rode in silence for a minute. Amrothos was uncharacteristically patient while she looked for the right words.

“He… I… Oh, _rhaich_!” she swore.

“Huh,” Amrothos said. “Maybe Erchirion was right after all.”

Lothíriel blanched; her grip on her reins slackened. “What—”

But Amrothos only shook his head, face unreadable. “Come on, sister. Our father is waiting.”

 

* * *

 

As soon as she could, Lothíriel escaped her welcoming family and secluded herself in her bedchamber. She stared blankly at herself in the mirror and gnawed the inside of her lip to keep from crying. Her hair was tousled from the ride, her riding dress was dusty, and her face was pale. She was a far cry from the regal lady she had hoped to be when she was a girl.

She’d spent the last ten months trying to cure herself of her feelings for Éomer, and one fleeting glimpse of him had undone all of her hard work. She hadn’t even seen his face! Just a blurry distant vision of him astride his great warhorse, riding off across the plains with his helmet’s plume streaming after him along with his men.

Lothíriel sank to the ground and drew her knees up to her chest. Why did it have to be so hopeless? In a perfect world, they might already be betrothed. Her father was one of his closest friends. A Gondorian match would be a perfect way to further cement the alliance between the two realms, and who better than Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, daughter of his great friend Prince Imrahil, one of the highest lords in the land?

Well, so far, no one. Éomer had not married. He wasn’t even betrothed. It had been over a year since he’d become King of Rohan, and the line of Éorl was without an heir. Dynastically speaking, Éomer was a fool to not have taken a bride yet. True, there was his sister, but her children would be born to Gondor, raised in Gondor. The Northmen deserved a king of their own.

So what was Éomer waiting for? Lothíriel had no idea, but she wished he’d hurry up. Every day that passed where there was even a sliver of a chance for her to be with him…

Lothíriel pressed her forehead against her knee and squeezed her legs together.

He couldn’t know what pain he was giving her. Éomer was a good man; even if they had never been friends, he would have regretted causing his friend’s daughter pain. But as long as he was unattached, there was hope. Over months and months she had tried to quash it, to put her feelings behind her. She had thought she’d succeeded, but now everything was just as it had been ten months ago.

Hope was folly, and she was alone.

 

* * *

 

 

Lothíriel had been prepared for Merethrond to be crowded, but just part of the vast hall was set for guests. The only people present were the highest lords and ladies of Gondor, some guests from Rohan, and her king and queen. Éomer and his sister had not yet arrived.

As Lothíriel’s family headed to the dais at the back of the hall, she looked around for Faramir. Ah, there—he was talking with Lord Húrin, Warden of the Keys, at the end of the high table. She brightened at once when Faramir glanced their way, and he parted with Lord Húrin at once to come over.

When he finally finished greeting everyone else, he paused before her with a smile as the rest of her family moved ahead to the dais.

“Lothíriel, it is good to have you back,” he said. He embraced her, and she stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

“I’m very happy to see you, cousin,” she said, and stepped back to look him over. Faramir had regained all of the weight and muscle he’d lost while sick last year, and the upcoming wedding was certainly giving him a healthy glow. “You look wonderful.”

Faramir’s eyes darted behind her and his gaze brightened. Lothíriel steeled herself for the worst and turned.

It was Éomer all right. Éomer, his sister, and two retainers who followed them. Lothíriel bowed her head at them and stepped back as Faramir hurried forward to greet his betrothed. He squeezed Éowyn’s hand and led her forward.

“Lothíriel, you remember Lady Éowyn,” he said. His eyes were bright and happy.

Lothíriel put on a smile. “Of course!” She took Éowyn’s free hand and pressed it warmly. She kept her eyes on Éowyn’s face, though she was fully conscious of Éomer only a few feet away. But her attention belonged on Éowyn. She was her cousin’s beloved, and Lothíriel _was_ happy she had returned to marry him. “Welcome back, my lady. You are a welcome sight in Minas Tirith.”

Éowyn smiled back at her. Lothíriel thought she could make out the resemblance between this tall blond woman and their shared kinswoman in Lossarnach. The long face, the straight nose, the gray eyes… And Éowyn was beautiful. It was easy to see how Faramir had been so enchanted.

“Thank you, Princess Lothíriel,” Éowyn said. She glanced at her brother, eyebrows a little raised, but she looked back to Lothíriel almost at once. “Faramir has told me much of you. I will be honored to soon call you cousin.” She leaned forward a little stiffly and kissed Lothíriel on the cheek.

When Éowyn drew back to stand by her brother again, Lothíriel was forced at last to look Éomer in the eye. He was already watching her; his gaze seemed to drink her in like water. Lothíriel blushed but met his gaze firmly.

Éomer looked like the king again, with a close-trimmed beard and his hair smooth across his broad shoulders. His golden circlet gleamed in his hair; his rich tunic only emphasized his powerful build.

“Westú Lothíriel hal,” he said with a bow.

Lothíriel blinked. “I’m sorry?”

Faramir laughed. “It’s a Rohirric greeting,” he told her. He pressed a hand to his heart and bowed his head to Éomer. “Mae govannen, Éomer King.”

Lothíriel frowned. Silently, she tested the foreign words on her tongue before looking back to Éomer. “Westú Éomer hal,” she said, and his face lit up with a smile as bright as the sun. She felt blinded by him, but there was no looking away.

Éowyn whispered something to Faramir, then turned back. “You must give me up for the evening, Éomer,” she declared. “I will sit with Faramir.” She smiled and led Faramir to the dais.

Lothíriel stared after them, mind reeling. Had Éowyn _meant_ to leave her alone with Éomer?

“Princess?”

Éomer’s voice was hesitant. Lothíriel’s heart twisted painfully in her chest. She took a steadying breath and turned back to him, pulling her lips up in what she hoped was a passable smile.

He was holding his arm out to her, and his face was hopeful. Lothíriel swallowed and reached out to put her hand on his arm. Her heart raced as soon as she touched him, and when he readjusted her hand with his own, heat flooded her face and neck. His hand lingered on hers.

“I am glad to see you again,” he murmured. He started towards the dais, though he walked much slower than usual.

Why was her mouth so dry? She swallowed again. “And I, you.” She looked up at him; he kept his eyes ahead, but he smiled at her reply. He said nothing more.

Even if she could think of something to say, she wasn’t sure she could speak. This welcome was beyond anything she had expected. His attention, his touch, his hesitation… It was more than she could have hoped for.

All too soon, they were at the dais, and Lothíriel had to part from Éomer to greet her king and queen and rejoin her family. She drew her hand away reluctantly. “Thank you, my lord,” she said.

Éomer bowed; his eyes met hers from under his brows with a sweltering look that made her knees weak. He rose and went to join Éowyn and Faramir; Lothíriel bowed very quickly to her king and queen, whose smiles were all too satisfied, and went off to the same separate table on the dais as last year. Her father was seated at the high table, and he watched her with a careful, calculating expression. Lothíriel only just remembered to duck her head at him as she passed by.

Dinner was strained. Amrothos’s friends from Pelargir and the others at their table had been replaced by Rohirrim, some of whom spoke very little Westron. Lothíriel tried to be friendly, but she was distracted and out of sorts.

Éomer was happy to see her! His sister had conspired to leave them alone together! What did it mean? Was there hope for her? For them? She couldn’t look at Éomer; her seat faced away from the high table. Erchirion seemed to have architectured that—he’d saved the spot next to himself for her. She couldn’t tell if she was relieved or not. Watching Éomer all through dinner would be bad manners, not to mention all too telling. But every time she felt eyes on her, the hairs on the back of her neck rose and she wondered: was it him? Was _he_ watching her?

When servants brought out the final course, Gilmith finally managed to coax Lothíriel into the conversation with the Rohirrim. One of them, an older man with silver hair and beard, was the new lord of Aldburg, Éomer’s kinsman. Lothíriel longed to ask about Éomer, but nervousness prevented her.

“Have you lived long at Aldburg, Lord Cearl?” Gilmith asked.

“For some five years, my lady,” Lord Cearl said. “As marshal to Théoden King, Éomer was often away, and he was kind enough to allow me to hold the keep in his stead.”

Amrothos, a few seats down from Erchirion, glanced at Lothíriel before addressing Lord Cearl. “How do you think he is making out as king of Rohan?”

“Better than many hoped,” Cearl said. He was not at all taken aback, and indeed seemed pleased to answer what Gondorians would have considered an impertinent question at such a public gathering. “Éomer King has brought us great luck. With all of our troubles during the war, peace seemed ages away. The Dunlendings, the orcs of Isengard… But we have peace now, thanks to our king.”

“Éomer Éadig,” Cearl’s wife said. She, too, had a wrinkled face, but her eyes were full of pride. She hardly spoke any Westron, but she seemed to have understood the discussion.

“What does that mean?” Lothíriel asked.

“Éomer the Blessed,” Cearl translated. He patted his wife’s hand. “The Mark is blessed now, thanks to him. Already we have recovered so much.” He leaned towards Amrothos conspiratorially. “Now he just needs a queen!”

“And sum æðeling!” his wife added.

No one was actually looking at her, but Lothíriel felt as though all of them could read her thoughts. She cut her poached pear into tiny pieces and carefully lifted her spoon to her mouth. Rohirric was meaningless to her, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out what Cearl’s wife had said.

Éomer needed a queen so he could have a son. Some woman would be his wife, and his wife would be in his bed. Lothíriel wanted that woman to be her!

She flushed and coughed. Erchirion touched her shoulder with concern.

“Are you well, Lothíriel? You’re all red.”

“I’m well,” she managed. She licked her lips and fixed her eyes on her plate.

Lord Cearl laughed. “The princess is shy,” he said. His eyes twinkled at her when she glanced up. “You are too modest, princess. One day you’ll—”

“Uncle.”

Lothíriel’s hand froze halfway to her spoon. Cearl’s grin broadened as he looked up past Lothíriel and stood to bow. “Westu Éomer hal!”

Cearl’s wife caught Lothíriel’s eye. “Éomer Éadig,” she whispered, smiling. There was a knowing look in her pale eyes, but she nodded approvingly at Lothíriel.

Lothíriel smiled back shakily. Was she misinterpreting, or did this woman think she would be a worthy wife for her blessed king? The thought made her heart beat fast, and she turned to the others with fresh confidence.

The last time she had seen Erchirion and Éomer together, Éomer had just come out of a dark pantry. But their greeting now was perfectly friendly; Erchirion seemed far more pleased than Lothíriel had expected. And Amrothos was downright delighted.

“We saw you as we were approaching the city!” he said to Éomer. “You were riding out, but there was no way we could have caught you.”

“I am sorry,” Éomer said. “I would have liked to ride with you again.”

Lothíriel finally turned to look up at Éomer. He turned from Amrothos to bow his head to her. His blue eyes fixed on hers.

“Do you like to ride, Princess Lothíriel?”

“Of course she does,” Amrothos cut in. He leaned on Lothíriel’s chair and dropped a kiss on the top of her head; she rolled her eyes and nudged him away. “You should see her! She can beat Erchirion and me in races on the beach. She was out of practice when she first got back, but it was only a few weeks before she was outpacing us again.”

“I only win sometimes,” she protested, cheeks warm. “And you two are far better everywhere else.”

“You’ve never had much reason to ride hard on the open road,” Erchirion said.

Lothíriel shrugged. “I suppose.” She glanced up at Éomer again; his lips curved into a smile.

“Perhaps one day I will see you beat them,” Éomer said. “They do Gondor credit, but it would be a treat to see you win.”

Feeling bold, she said, “Perhaps on the beach, I could beat you, too.”

Éomer threw his head back and laughed. “Perhaps,” he replied. “Anything is possible.”

“You’ll just have to come to Dol Amroth sometime,” Erchirion said lightly. “We’d be honored by a visit from you.”

“Would you?” Éomer asked, but he was looking at Lothíriel.

She nodded, eyes firmly on his. “We would.”

“Of course we would,” Amrothos added. “If you hurry about it, you might beat King Elessar at being the first king in Dol Amroth in a millenia.”

“Ha! Well, I hope to one day see your city. But for now, I will enjoy the sights of Minas Tirith. The White Tree is unlike anything else in Middle-earth.” He widened his eyes at Lothíriel when he said _White Tree_ , so briefly that she almost missed it. He turned aside. “Uncle, Aunt, Lady Gilmith—good evening.” He bowed and left.

Lothíriel knew what she had to do.

 

* * *

 

Around midnight, Lothíriel rose from her bed. She pulled a dark kirtle and sleeves on over her long shift, then draped a charcoal scarf over her hair as she had done the first night she’d met Éomer. Despite the butterflies in her stomach, her hands were steady as she slid on her seal ring. However much her feelings were clouding her judgment, she knew that her family had played a part if she’d read the cues right.

If she hadn’t…

She shook her head. There was no time for doubt now.

Lothíriel slipped out of her room and tiptoed down the hall. She had almost reached the stairs when Erchirion melted out of the shadows to her left.

She froze.

Erchirion shifted his weight awkwardly, then stepped forward to embrace her. He turned his head to whisper in her ear. “Valar bless you, sister. And good luck.”

Lothíriel drew back, face pinched. Wasn’t he going to stop her?

“Go on,” he urged.

“Why?” She tried to make out his face in the dark. “How did you…”

“You deserve happiness,” he said simply. “And he—he’s a good man. You know that. And so do I.” He squeezed her shoulders and stepped aside. “Go on, before someone else wakes up. Don’t miss your chance.”

She stared at him for a moment, then flung her arms around him. “Thank you,” she whispered, and ran down the stairs and out the door.

The gate guard recognized her at once, and he let her out without preamble. Scattered clouds cast shifting shadows across the cobblestone street, and a strong breeze whipped around her. It was cooler than she had expected, and she shivered from chill and anticipation.

Lothíriel hurried through the streets to the gate to the Seventh Level. Once she passed the guards there, she ran breathlessly up the sloping road. She skidded to a halt as soon as she reached the Citadel. The Court of the Fountain was empty, save for the Citadel Guards. Éomer was nowhere in sight.

The clouds parted, and the moon spilled pale, hazy light for a brief moment. Lothíriel walked slowly around the perimeter of the Citadel towards the spur of rock that jutted out through the city. She kept a distance from the four guards posted around the Court of the Fountain. They might ask questions, and she couldn’t think of anything reasonable to say.

Ten minutes passed, and Lothíriel was back at the tunnel to the Citadel gate. She pressed her hand to the stone archway and looked longingly at the guest lodgings. If there had been fewer people staying there, she would have barged right in. But she hadn’t lost all her sense.

Just most of it.

She leaned against the wall and squeezed her eyes shut. Was she all wrong? Was all of this a mistake? Had she misread the signs? Maybe Lord Cearl’s wife would be horrified to have her as a queen. Maybe Éomer wanted nothing to do with her. Maybe—

Footsteps echoed from the guest quarters, and Lothíriel reflexively drew back into the shadow of the tunnel. She peered out across the Citadel.

Lothíriel gasped and clutched the wall for support. Éomer! He strode out towards the White Tree, still dressed in his evening finery. The clouds parted, bathing him in moonlight. Lothíriel swallowed and stepped out from the shadows.

She twisted her hands in her skirt as she walked towards the tree. Éomer paused and turned towards her with wide eyes and parted lips. Lothíriel glanced at him, but kept heading towards the White Tree. After a moment, Éomer walked on.

The guards had on their usual stony faces, and they were all faced outwards. After Lothíriel passed the one nearest her, she quickened her pace.

They arrived at the tree at the same moment and paused a few feet away from each other. Éomer’s eyes were dark and his body was tense; Lothíriel swallowed. There he was, in all his glory, with his loose golden hair and powerful build and soft lips.

“Hello,” she said.

Éomer stepped towards her. Lothíriel had to lift her chin to keep her eyes on his. Her heart raced as he cupped her face. She drew in a shaky breath; her heartbeat pounded in her ears. His eyes drank her in.

“You came,” he said, voice husky.

“Of course I came,” Lothíriel murmured. She leaned into his hand and smiled up at him. “How could I not?”

With his other hand, Éomer pushed her scarf off of her head. He tangled his fingers in her hair and tipped her head back. He leaned in. Lothíriel breathed low and quick. Éomer paused inches from her face. His dark eyes darted to look at hers.

Lothíriel was tired of waiting.

She rose up on tiptoes, planted her hands against his tunic, and pressed her lips against his. Éomer made a surprised noise, but then he pulled her close and kissed her back.

His lips _were_ soft. Lothíriel melted into him; he tilted her head for a better angle and kissed her deeper. His body against hers was warm and solid, and Lothíriel felt more at home pressed against him than she’d ever felt in Minas Tirith. She ran one hand up over his shoulder and into his hair as she had dreamed of doing for almost a year. A moan formed deep in her throat; warmth pooled in the pit of her belly. By the Valar, why had she waited so long?

All too soon, Éomer pulled back. Lothíriel gasped for breath, but her eyes shone bright and she did not take her hands from his body. Éomer brushed her tousled hair back and ran his thumb across her cheekbone. They were still so close that she could feel his breath on her face.

“Hello,” she said again, dazed.

Éomer chuckled. “Hello.” His hand wandered through her hair, down her neck, across her shoulder. “And how are you this evening?”

His mock formality made Lothíriel grin. “Very well, my lord.”

“Éomer,” he said. “Call me Éomer.” He was not mocking now; his voice was low and his eyes darkened again.

“Éomer,” she repeated, smiling. He pushed her hair back and kissed the soft hollow at the base of her neck. Lothíriel’s breath caught, and she clutched him hard. “ _Éomer_.”

 

* * *

 

Some time later, they were sitting side by side in the grass against the fountain. Lothíriel was inspecting one of Éomer’s giant hands. Her own hands were soft—a lady’s hands—but his were strong and calloused, like a warrior.

“Do you know,” he said, “it’s been almost three years since we met?”

“Yes, of course,” she answered. She pressed a kiss to the inside of his wrist. “We met in July.”

“And do you know I’ve loved you the whole time?”

Lothíriel blinked. How could that be true? She’d been so convinced of his indifference!

“No,” she managed. “I didn’t know.” A frown crossed her face as she remembered their second meeting at King Elessar’s coronation feast and how he’d sprung away from her in horror. “You hated me when you thought I was my uncle’s crony.”

“I didn’t,” he said. He shifted to face her and laced his fingers with hers. “I was horrified, yes, but I was horrified at myself more than you. I had spent two years thinking of you, dreaming of you, and then to discover that you had stayed serving that man… I could not blame you; he was your kinsman. But I made up my mind to forget you.” Éomer kissed her fingers. “I tried, but it was impossible.”

“So when we met again…”

Éomer groaned and buried his face in her shoulder. “I was such a fool, Lothíriel!”

Her heart skipped at the sound of her name on his lips, and she ran her hand through his hair.

“If I couldn’t forget you,” he continued, “at least I didn’t have to torment myself by being near you.” He sat up again. “But you were having none of it. You stood your ground. You made me listen, and then—” he reddened— “I was ready to kiss you right in the tower. But you seemed uncomfortable.”

“I was not!” she retorted. A smile tugged at her lips. “I was waiting for you to kiss me! I’d never been kissed before. What was I supposed to do?”

Éomer blinked. “You mean you loved me even then?”

“I don’t think I realized it until that evening,” she said. “But I thought you could tell. You kept saying how open my face was to you, and so I thought it must be obvious. I thought you saw my feelings before I even knew it myself.” She blushed. “You must know that I thought well of you from the first time we met.”

“Yes,” he said, smiling. “You told me so.”

Lothíriel pulled her knees up to her chest. “But you spent all that time thinking I didn’t care for you?” He must have been as miserable as she had been.

“I was afraid you didn’t,” he said. He pushed his hair back from his face and ran a hand through his beard. “I never was certain, and I couldn’t risk being wrong. Your family…”

There was no need for him to continue; Lothíriel understood it all. She sighed. Her family had been a double-edged sword, hadn’t they? The only reason she knew him, and the most powerful force keeping him away. He would never risk his friendship with her father and brothers.

“Yes,” she agreed. “My family.”

“I didn’t know for certain that you thought of me that way until I saw you here tonight,” he continued. “When I cornered you in Merethrond, everything you said seemed to cement your disinterest. A forced betrothal, you said! It was almost like a threat.” He shook his head. “I didn’t want that. If I did, I could have asked your father for your hand last May. He would have been happy, so long as you could stomach the sight of me.”

“I can’t imagine anyone not being able to stomach the sight of you,” Lothíriel said. She ran her hand over his face and across his broad chest; he caught her hand and kissed her palm. A tingle ran through her, but she managed to say, “Haven’t you ever seen yourself?”

“Once or twice. As I said,” Éomer continued, eyes twinkling at her deflection, “I could have asked Imrahil. But I could never be satisfied that way.” He brushed a kiss on the inside of her wrist.

Lothíriel’s pulse raced at the feel of his lips and beard against her sensitive skin.

“I only hoped again once I realized you were upset when I left you with Erchirion. I wondered if you hadn’t misread _my_ feelings.”

If only he’d realized sooner! She shook her head and buried her face in his chest. “I wish you’d been clearer,” she muttered. “I wish you’d known how much I’ve thought of you.”

Éomer ran a hand along her face and into her hair and grinned. “And here I worried that you would have forgotten the stranger whose undergarments you rummaged through.”

Lothíriel yelped and jerked away. “I—”

But she did not finish, for Éomer drew her close and kissed her.

She could feel the grin on his lips, and she couldn’t help but smile into his mouth. Then, his words from a minute ago came back to her. A light came into her eyes and her smile grew as she pulled back.

“You dreamed of me?” she asked.

Éomer brushed her hair back from her face with surprising care. “I did,” he said.

“And what did you dream?” she dared. He laughed.

“I will not say! All I will say is that it occurred to me that your uncle had the right idea: find a pretty woman to distract you from your troubles.”

She laughed and curled up under his arm. “Well, now that you have got her, what will you do?”

“Marry her,” he said, “if she will have me.”

His gaze was steady, and Lothíriel fingered her seal ring as she stared into his bright blue eyes.

“She will.”


	7. Epilogue (and Bloopers)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Éomer ran a hand up the side of her neck. “Well, my queen,” he murmured. He turned her head to face the bed and kissed the hollow behind her ear. “Shall we?”
> 
> [epilogue & bloopers]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here's the last part! Featuring a short epilogue and some bloopers, written at the suggestion of hannah_jpg. Blooper #1 includes a dislocated shoulder, fyi.
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed this! I really enjoyed writing it, and I hope it brought you some smiles

_T.A. 3021  
_ _25 June_

Éomer barred the door against the crowd of wedding guests. For a few minutes, they stood without speaking, listening to the guests calling out well-wishes and blessings as Éomer’s steward and other servants urged them back to the hall for more music and celebration.

As silence fell in the corridor, Lothíriel turned to look at her new bedchamber. She had never seen this room before. She’d only arrived in Rohan a few days ago, and despite her curiosity to see every inch of her new home, she knew very well how much people were watching her. Propriety was key. And all of her brothers seemed to have gained a new level of overprotectiveness. She was glad to be out of their sight at last.

The walls here were dark panelled wood. A few tapestries had been hung; Lothíriel guessed more would be up in the wintertime. The floor was stone, though there were many rugs to ward off the chill, including a fur rug by the hearth. A blazing fire had been lit along with candles on the small table by the narrow window, casting a warm glow around the room. And the bed was much higher and longer than any she’d ever slept in. She swallowed a giggle at the thought of trying to share her old bed at Dol Amroth with Éomer. How much of his legs would dangle off? Half?

Éomer stepped up behind her and squeezed her shoulders, sending a chill down her back. “Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” Lothíriel answered, all her nerves coming back. She turned to face him. He was resplendent in his kingly clothes and golden circlet; his hair shone softly in the firelight. Her own gown was blue silk embroidered with silver thread, and her crown had been wrought in white gold to match. Her mother had cried to see her dressed so, but it was Éomer whose expression Lothíriel had cared about. When he’d first seen her at the ceremony, his eyes had gone dark and wide as he drank her in.

He looked at her that way now, too. Lothíriel’s heart pounded; she couldn’t take her eyes from him. He was beautiful, and she wanted him. She swallowed.

Éomer ran a hand up the side of her neck. “Well, my queen,” he murmured. He turned her head to face the bed and kissed the hollow behind her ear. “Shall we?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

**BLOOPERS**

  

 

> _1\. Éomer barrels through (from chapter three). Featuring a dislocated arm!!!_

“We are not friends,” he told her. “Pray excuse me.” He put one foot on the step right below hers and put his weight on it.

Lothíriel stuck her hands on her hips. With her elbows out, she was a greater obstacle, though a man of Éomer’s size and strength could easily barrel past her if he chose.

She swallowed and opened her mouth, but Éomer kept moving towards her. Lothíriel held her ground, and Éomer’s eyes widened just before he knocked into her yet again. Lothíriel grunted as she fell back; she squeezed her eyes shut in anticipation of a bruised tailbone.

Éomer managed to grab her upper arm before she hit the steps, and his powerful grip jerked her arm out of its socket with a sickening pop.

“Ow!”

Éomer rapidly set her down—gently, thank the Valar—and knelt before her. Tears sprang to her eyes as painful spasms shuddered in her right shoulder. It was suddenly much higher than her left shoulder, and the whole arm felt _wrong_. Éomer winced and reached towards her, but she leaned away, careful not to move her arm.

“Princess, I am so sorry,” Éomer said. “But don’t pull away. Let me help you.”

His contrition was genuine enough, but did he know anything about dislocated shoulders?

Probably, she decided. He was a warrior, and even her brothers knew some healing.

Lothíriel blinked back tears and carefully held up her hand, keeping her upper arm in place. Éomer met her eyes, not ready to start without a clear signal. She nodded, and he pressed his large hands to her shoulder and upper arm. Only squeezing her eyes shut stopped the flow of tears.

After a long minute, Éomer stepped back. “I can put your shoulder back in place,” he said. “I need to get behind you to lift your arm. Do you trust me?”

“Of course,” she said, dazed. “Of course I do.” She leaned aside to make room for him.

Éomer seemed surprised at her quick agreement, but he stepped carefully over her. “Lean forward, and relax your arm as much as you can,” he instructed. He took her right arm and pulled it back, straight past her ribs, with his free hand pressed against her shoulder blade for purchase. Lothíriel let out a weak cry and tilted her head away from the awful pain in her shoulder.

“Shh, it’s alright,” Éomer murmured. He rubbed little circles on her back with his thumb. “Just a little longer.”

It was more than a little longer, though, and Lothíriel sniveled the whole long time while Éomer pulled her arm back.

Finally, her arm popped back into place, and Lothíriel gasped for air. All of her strength had left her, and she leaned heavily against the stairwell wall. Her eyes slid closed.

Éomer came back around in front of her. He gently pressed her hand. “Are you alright?”

Lothíriel nodded, eyes still shut and body still oddly weak. “Thank you,” she said. She waited for him to leave; there was no way to stop him now.

But Éomer did not leave. Lothíriel eventually opened her eyes, and blinked in surprise to see how close he was. His face was troubled, but he nodded at her. “You are well enough to walk? I cannot leave you here like this.”

“Oh.” She tried to stand, but her legs had turned to jelly. She fell back heavily. “I’m sorry.” Her face burned; this was _not_ how she had hoped this encounter would go. Éomer seemed to be considering his next move, and she reached out with effort and grabbed his hand. He stared at her, and she smiled weakly. “I need to tell you something,” she said.

“What is it?”

“I wasn’t his crony. I did it for my father. For Gondor.” She wasn’t sure if he understood, but her mind had been rendered senseless.

Éomer sighed. “Let’s get you home.”

He wrapped her good arm in his and helped her to her feet; she leaned heavily against him. If only he hadn’t knocked into her, she thought. Then she could have explained everything. But now…

Tears blurred her vision, and she slipped on a stair. Éomer caught her easily under the arms. He looked her up and down, sighed again, and picked her up under the knees. She fit snugly against his broad chest. If she’d had more strength, she would have wrapped her arms around his neck. As it was, she only rested her head against his shoulder.

By the time they made it to the bottom of the stairs, the rocking motion of his steady steps was lulling her to sleep. She pressed her face into his neck and whispered her whole truth into his skin. His breath hitched as her lips brushed against the hollow of his throat, and he paused halfway down the corridor.

“Princess,” he said, “I…”

But Lothíriel was already asleep.

 

\---

 

> _2\. Lothíriel's bed in Dol Amroth is just as small as she predicted_

Lothíriel leaned against the windowsill and breathed in the sea air. “It’s nice to be back,” she murmured.

“I can see why everyone loves it here.” Éomer came up behind her and rested his chin on the top of her head. “The noise is soothing.”

“The smell, too.”

They were in Lothíriel’s old bedroom in Dol Amroth. Lothíriel hadn’t been home in almost two years, and so Éomer had arranged a trip to the south of Gondor. The sight of him struggling to find his sea legs had been endlessly entertaining for the days on the water, and Lothíriel had lost no time in teasing him about it with Amrothos.

Now it was past sunset, and the sea was a dark blur against the gray cloudy sky. The gauzy curtains rustled in the breeze, and Lothíriel shivered. Her shift was a poor covering against the evening chill. Éomer ran his hands up and down her arms.

“Cold?”

“Mm. It’s a little chilly.” She turned around and leaned against him. “You’re warm, though.”

“Warm and tired.” Éomer yawned. He shuffled back towards the bed, keeping her close. She giggled and squirmed against him. “Time for bed, wife.” He suddenly picked her up, his arms around her shoulders and knees.

Lothíriel looped her arms around his neck. “Lead the way, my lord.”

Two quick strides and Éomer tossed Lothíriel onto her bed. She reached up for him, and he pulled off his tunic and climbed in next to her. He stretched out, then paused.

“What is it?” she asked.

Éomer glanced down the length of the bed and wiggled his feet. Lothíriel sat up on her elbows and burst into giggles. His feet and almost a third of his shins were dangling off the edge of the bed.

“I’ll admit,” Éomer said, “I wasn’t expecting that.”

Lothíriel flopped back down, laughter bubbling out of her uncontrollably. “I wondered about this! When I first saw your bed, before it was ours.” She wiped her eyes and turned onto her side to look at Éomer. “I’m sorry,” she said, still giggling a little. “I guess you’ll just have to curl up around me.”

Éomer grinned wickedly, turned onto his side, and curled his legs up around hers. He gripped her hips and pulled her close. “I guess so.”


End file.
